In the Midnight of Manon
by ginOO7
Summary: Phoenix Series: Part II. A prequel and a sequel to the Mystery of Manon parts I & II: Robert McCall finally begins to unravel the circumstances behind Manon's death in the French Alps and the suicide of one of his best friends, Ben Silver. The revelations end an old friendship and rekindle another.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: __This is Part 2 of the Phoenix series. So, fair warning - it is not a standalone story, and some minor plot threads may not make considerable sense unless you have read part 1._ This particular story also follows the plot lines begun in the original TV series episodes "Memories of Manon" and "Mystery of Manon."

* * *

_Sometime you will weary of this world's arts, _  
_Of deceit and change and hollow hearts, _  
_And, wearying, sigh for the 'used to be, ' _  
_And your feet will turn to the porch, and me._

_I shall watch for you here when days grow long; _  
_I shall list for your step through the robin's song; _  
_I shall sit in the porch where the moon looks through, _  
_And a vacant chair will wait - for you._

_You may stray, and forget, and rove afar, _  
_But my changeless love, like the polar star, _  
_Will draw you at length o'er land and sea - _  
_And I know you will yet come back to me._

_The years may come, and the years may go, _  
_But sometime again, when south winds blow, _  
_When roses bloom, and the moon swings high, _  
_I shall live in he light of your dark brown eye._

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

* * *

**Part I**

The Ides of March, 1999

The hallway was neat and clean, but the once crisp linoleum had faded and aged to a brittle yellow, the edges curling where they met the wall. The whole building smelled of a mélange of Pine Sol, urine, and vomit. The hallway led to an abrupt fork, one side leading to a compact observation room and the other side leading to a few storerooms and a small employee break room. Dr. Michael Healy flipped the chart he was holding closed as he turned down the corridor toward the observation room. He swung the door inward, careful not to slam it. Healy noticed a man already waiting, his back turned, arms folded, deep in thought as he stared through the one-way glass at the dismal figures beyond.

"Not every day do we get government visitors," Healy smiled genuinely, closing the door. Control said nothing, his steel eyes honed on a woman sitting in the corner, hugging her white gown periodically. Healy's smile faded as he noticed the man's intensity. He picked up a phone hanging on the wall, "Lincoln, could you clear the rec room and walk the patients down for their morning medication. Oh – but leave Maddie Doe, please."

"Maddie?" At last, the visitor turned momentarily to face Healy as the remaining patients were shuffled out of the large rec room by assistants in white uniforms. All of them had debilitating mental illnesses. The institution was underfunded, understaffed, and overcrowded, but it was the only state-run psychiatric institution prepared to assist many of the impoverished or troubled patients in Hunts Point.

"Yes, she didn't like 'Jane Doe' when she got here, and we tried to help her pick out a name she liked. She insisted on Maon or Madhon or . . . ."

"Manon," Control corrected him.

"Sure, something like that – but frankly, it was easier for the other patients and the staff to remember Maddie, and she didn't seem to mind it too much. Anyway - does that mean the law enforcement folks have figured out her real name?"

_"__Manon is French for Madeline,_" she had once told him when they had first met all those years ago at the Sorbonne. That seemed a lifetime ago. Control looked through the one-way glass again as the woman approached. "There are some potential leads," Control said, softly.

She stood just in front of the mirrored window, her eyes large. "I know you are in there," she hissed, under her breath. "Why don't you just let me go?" She hugged herself again and stared into the mirror.

Frowning, Control took a step toward the woman. There were now only a few feet apart. She had aged since he had last seen her almost eleven years before, but she was still beautiful. She moved with grace, even in a psychiatric ward. Her body and mind were scarred with the events of the last 16 years, but there was still a certain sharpness in her eyes. She was, in all likelihood, still very dangerous as well. "How is she doing?" he let the question dangle.

"She's certainly still a danger to society and herself," Dr. Healy shook his head. "We're not going to court to get her commitment lifted anytime soon. We've tried a variety of medications, but she has severe paranoia. Even after all these years, she still has vivid delusions about - well, you'll laugh at this - being a spook taken prisoner in the USSR, torture, murder - you name it, it's pretty out of this world."

Control nodded slowly, his eyes still following the woman. "Does she have trouble discerning present events?"

"Well," Healy mulled over the question for a moment, "I wouldn't say that. She has some pretty imaginative nightmares, and sometimes she refuses to sleep. She understands what is happening here, in the present, and she has fairly good memory recall about daily events. It is really the trauma of the past that she has created in her mind that poses the most danger. There are certain triggers that upset her to the point of almost complete debilitation. It can also involve physical violence against those she perceives as threats, so we avoid introducing those triggers in her environment."

"Such as?"

"Oh, things that remind her of spooks - international news and that sort of thing. It is the best way we have found to manage her illness. We try to focus her on the present."

"Her delusions - do they seem to follow any pattern?"

"No," Dr. Healy shrugged. "They are so fantastic; they don't make a lot of sense. She seems to remember some of her delusions vividly, but her mind twists sequences, names, dates, and places. It is almost like her fantasies are a jumble, and she can't sort them out. But of course, she has created such fantastic, complex nightmares in her mind that it would be hard for a sane person to sort them into a logical pattern. She blames drugs most of the time, and that is the one part of her story that we don't doubt. She probably does have some impaired brain functions from drug abuse. But her biggest obstacle right now is periodic but serious depression. Anyway, her medical files are confidential, but if you have more questions, you are welcome to talk with her. She really doesn't get any visitors; I'm sure she'd be thrilled to know someone asked after her."

"No," Control forced himself to pull his eyes away from the woman. He thought quickly, recalling her reaction to his appearance the last time he had been in a room with her. She had leveled a pistol at him, unsteadily, but if McCall had not intervened, disarming her, Control had no doubt in his mind that the woman would have killed him if he had made the wrong move. "I consulted with her prosecution team when she was made a ward of the state. I don't think she'd appreciate being in a room with one of the people that sent her here."

"Yeah," Dr. Healy stared off at his patient, "I can imagine she wasn't very cooperative at the hearing."

Control turned back to the woman on the other side of the mirrored glass. "How many times has she tried to escape?"

Dr. Healy grinned, "More than I care to count. She's not much trouble, really, except for her propensity to test our security."

Control thought a moment. "I understand you have an overcrowding problem."

"Oh, yes, we always are maxed out on our beds."

"Would it help you out if I could get her transferred to another facility?"

Dr. Healy looked at the stranger with a hint of disbelief. "Sure, any free beds would help us out, but you won't find many places with permanent beds open except for some of those high end, private institutions in Upstate New York. Those are expensive, I can tell you that. And she's in no state to be on the street, so if that's what you are thinking . . . ."

"I have one in mind," Control cut him off abruptly. "It's a very secure facility." Control's cold eyes returned to the woman and narrowed slightly. "Very secure." He paused one last time, his mood brooding and serious. "I'll send the paperwork over this afternoon."


	2. Chapter 2

**Kryvyi Rih, Ukraine: January, 1999 (A few months previous)**

Perhaps it was Yuriy Tereshchenko's youthful smile or the way his olive eyes were always in motion. Those eyes – those eyes that danced while he was listening intently - their constant motion belied Yuriy's undiagnosed hyperactivity. Sometimes they relayed their owner's emotions when the rest of his boyish face was expressionless, and sometimes they were blank ovals, curtains drawn over the window to his soul.

Olenka Loboda walked around Yuriy, her gaze quickly sweeping in his lithe figure. He had ample muscle development, even for a boy of his age, but it only elongated his slender figure, rather than adding bulk to his frame. She noted his sun-hardened face and windswept hair. "How old are you again?" she asked.

"Eighteen," Yuriy tried desperately to lower his voice.

_Sixteen, at most_, she thought. "And what sort of work are you looking for?" She finished her circuit around the boy, pleased with this specimen. He had large hands, a strong back, and he was young, young enough to provide years of faithful service.

"Dishwasher, clerk, anything," he responded quickly, his eyes flickering nervously.

"There are many positions available in Europe, but . . . ." She smiled at him, her last word lingering. "I have a contact in America as well. The contact is looking for someone to start as a waiter quite soon. Do you know any English?"

Yuriy's stomach leapt a mile. "Yes," he stammered, "I know some English. I took it in school. My mother helps me practice at home, and I am a fast learner."

"You know, these are very, very difficult positions to get, the ones in America. You must have a strong work ethic. The pay is more than you will ever make here, but the hours can be long. The positions go quickly, so if you are serious, we must work fast." She noticed the trepidation in his face. _Good, a little fear would make things smoother._

Yuriy shifted his weight to his heels. "I don't care if the work is hard. I'm used to hard work. My momma works three jobs. I try to help her." He paused, and Olenka could see tears forming in his youthful eyes. He bit his lip, burying his emotion as he continued, "My little brother, Vadim, needs surgery for his heart defects. I'll do anything to help my little brother," he looked back at Olenka, and she saw the mental fortitude in the young man.

"So you will send the money home to your mother for this surgery?"

"Yes," he looked at her, his eyes pleading. "And the sooner I can begin to make money, the better. Vadim doesn't have much time. Please, if there is anything you can do to make this go faster . . . ."

Olenka smiled. _Oh yes, he would do nicely. _Yuriy's age might delay things slightly, but she had a contact in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs who could help with Yuriy's passport. She paid him handsomely for every referral, so he'd better be able to expedite it.

"Good," she put her hands on his shoulders. "This particular position requires a great deal of discretion. The visas are very difficult to get, so I will have to make some special arrangements. As soon as they are in place, you must be ready to leave immediately. Are you a discrete boy, Yuriy?"

He did not hesitate. "I am."

"And America - long hours, hard work, good pay – you are up for the challenge?"

Yuriy managed a small smile. "Yes." He thought of his mother and little Vadim.

Olenka tapped a thoughtful, manicured finger on her cheek. "You are sure you won't miss your friends in school too much, Yuriy? I need someone I can depend on . . . ."

Yuriy shook his head quickly. "I left school last year, after my father died, to work as a steel laborer," he said, thinking of the money he was going to make. He would pay for the doctors and the heat in his mother's apartment, and then, one day, he would allow himself to buy something extra nice, something just for him - maybe a knockoff Swiss Patek Philippe watch, new clothes, shoes – a set of nice leather ones. This was the beginning for him, the beginning of a better life. A broad smile broke out across his face, his olive eyes dancing. "I dream of America."

"Yuriy," Olenka looked at him mischievously, "we are going to make your dreams come true."

* * *

**New York: March, 1999**

Robert McCall gently shut his apartment door and strode over to his answering machine, seeing the blinking light. Pressing play, he rubbed his weary neck. His afternoon errands had taken all day, and it had been a very long month. He had hardly been able to take a moment for himself since getting back from Russia, and what he really wanted was a quiet evening alone on the couch with a good book.

"Mr. . . . Equalizer? Um, I was trying to get some help finding some stereo equipment . . . ." McCall deleted the message, fast-forwarding to the next one.

"Hi Mister, I read your ad in the paper, and I've got these lousy neighbors. They play their music too loud, and people are coming and going. They got no respect . . . ." He deleted that one, as well.

"Um, hello," a distinct eastern European accent said, McCall's ears perking up immediately. "It's my son. He came here to New York looking for work, and I haven't heard from him since he left Ukraine. It's been over a month. He always calls, always. But he hasn't called. I'm so worried. I-I got all my money together, and I came here to look for him, but now my money has run out, and New York is so much bigger than I imagined. Please, if you can help me, my motel's number is 555-3043. It's Elena. Elena Tereshchenko."

McCall dialed the number on his phone and quickly arranged a meeting with Tereshchenko at a small café in Brownsville. As McCall arrived to the rundown area in Brooklyn, he looked out of place in his suit and polished leather shoes. He looked around - the area was clearly plagued by drugs and poverty. Folding his sunglasses into his pocket, he scanned the interior of the small café, and he immediately noticed a woman in her late forties, her face lined with worry. She had twisted herself into a small table tucked into a corner of the busy café. "My name is Robert McCall," he extended a hand accompanied by a warm smile before sitting down. After ordering an afternoon tea, he focused on the matter at hand. "Now, what may I do for you, Ms. Tereshchenko?"

Tereshchenko detailed her son's plan to come to America to work, his arrangements with Loboda, and the alarming absence of any messages from him after several months. "I went to see this woman - Olenka," she told him in one breath, "and she told me he had probably just run off. She was very mean, angry even. She wouldn't tell me anything about where he went, how he got there, or if he was all right. She told me it wasn't any of my business. She even sent some men to my house to stop me from asking questions. I knew, then, when I saw what her men did to my house that something very bad had happened to Yuriy, but I couldn't leave him here, Mr. McCall. I had to look for him. I couldn't let him down - he is my son, you understand," the tears welled up in her eyes. "I used my savings to come here to look for him, and I didn't know New York was so big. I've looked for a week, but my money - it's run out," she began to sob, silently. "I just want my son back, Mr. McCall. I just want to go home with my son."

"All right, all right," McCall said, soothingly, putting a gentle hand on her arm, "I will look into this for you, and I promise," he grasped her hand tightly, "if he is in New York, we will find him and get him home."

For the first time in their meeting, Elena's eyes lit up with a ray of hope, and she wiped the tears away. "Thank you, so much, Mr. McCall; I didn't know where else to turn."

"Now," McCall patted her hand, "what about you? Where are you staying?"

Elena smiled sadly, "I can manage."

McCall read between the lines. "Come on, come with me, we'll find you something." After belaying her protests, McCall helped her gather her meager belongings, and he helped her into the passenger seat of his new black Jaguar S-Type. He pulled up to a congenial bed and breakfast in Brooklyn, but as soon as he pulled up to the hotel, she shook her head furiously. "No, no, Mr. McCall, I cannot. I absolutely cannot." Her jaw was set.

"Really, Ms. Tereshchenko," he could tell she was worried about money, "it would be my pleasure, really."

"No, no," her face paled and she clutched her belongings closer. "I don't want to be any trouble. I could," she paused, searching his eyes, "I could stay with you? I could cook and . . . ."

McCall inwardly groaned. He had a firm policy - clients did not stay with him. He separated his private home life and his work with his clients for multiple reasons. Beyond safety, he enjoyed the private sanctuary of his home, removed from the work he did as the Equalizer. But he could tell, from her demeanor and her lack of money, that he would not be able to convince Elena Tereshchenko of any other arrangement. "All right, all right, you can stay with me." He gave in, cursing his own weakness and regretting the decision immediately. "Until we find you something else," he added with a strained smile as he pulled the Jag back into traffic and turned for home.

* * *

After installing Elena in his guest bedroom, McCall settled on the couch with a phone and thought for a moment. _The only lead was Loboda_. Dialing quickly, he heard a familiar voice pick up on the other end. "Jonah," he looked at the Ukrainian name he had written on the pad again, "I need you to run a search through ICE and see what you can turn up for me." He paused for a moment. "That is - if you think you can access their database."

"Ha," came the quick response, "ICE is a cinch to break into. I'll have your search done in a half hour. What do you need?"

"Anything you can find on a woman named Olenka Loboda. I think she is the expeditor for a human trafficking ring, but I don't know who her contacts are here in New York." As McCall hung up, he saw Elena drifting silently into the room, looking anxious. "Now the waiting begins," he said, guiding her to the couch.

A few hours later, McCall was flipping through information Jonah had quickly compiled. "Her name kept popping up in connection with the Guraya trafficking ring. It just started operating in New York recently," Jonah had told him over the phone. "But don't be fooled by that - they've been a major player in Western Europe for several years."

"What do they specialize in?" McCall asked.

"Sex slaves."

McCall felt a wave of anger roar through his body. "Did you find anything else?"

Jonah shrugged, "There's some Company info on the ring, but it is in hard file only. I just saw references to it. You know what that means."

McCall knew exactly what that meant. It was too sensitive to put on a software system, which meant it had compartmentalized Top Secret information in it. "Anything else?"

"Nope," Jonah stated, matter-of-factly. "I poked around the cop shops and a few other places. The operation is so new, nobody else had anything on it. You're lucky ICE had anything - probably because they were tracking the operations in Europe."

McCall thanked him and hung up the phone. He retired deep into his apartment, as far from Elena's bedroom as possible. He did not want her to hear that her child had been abducted by a sex ring until it was absolutely confirmed. He flipped out his cell phone, ringing through to the Company. "Main operator," came the instant reply.

"Control." McCall expected the usual, "One moment," and the sounds of his call being transferred. Instead, an unfamiliar voice asked, "Northern or Southern?"

McCall blinked, his mind racing through several possibilities. _This might be a complication._ "Nevermind," he corrected himself, "put me through to the Executive Director's office." He heard a few beeps and relaxed at the voice that answered. "Nigel."

"Mr. McCall, how can I assist you this morning?"

It was nice to know the Company's tracing system handled restricted caller ID without any problems. "Where is Control?"

"He is out of the office. May I take a message?"

"I need to set up a meeting."

A long pause. "He isn't taking meetings."

McCall narrowed his eyes. McCall realized he didn't know Nigel well, and he could not presume on their brief acquaintance. Nevertheless, this was unusual. And anything unusual in the office usually didn't bode well. "Nigel," since he was unsure what exactly he was walking into, he erred on the side of caution, "no message. If he phones in, please let him know I called."

"With pleasure." The phones clicked off. McCall immediately redialed, spoke a few brief words, hung up, and put on a kettle. By the time his tea had steeped, Jimmy had arrived, unbundling himself at the door.

"What's up, McCall?" Jimmy pulled his gloves off and rubbed his hands together, blowing into them.

"Where's Control?"

Jimmy shrugged. "He hasn't been in the office since you guys got back."

McCall snorted, "That hardly sounds like Control. Has there been a shakeup?"

Jimmy sat down on the couch, "Naw, the word is that he's on medical leave."

McCall nodded, it was unsurprising since Control had sustained a life-threatening injury, and it clearly hadn't finished healing when they had met up in Russia, "So what exactly is going on in the office? I called and was almost routed through to Northern _or_ Southern Control."

"Well, you know while you guys were . . ." Jimmy struggled for the right word, "gone, the Director appointed new acting officers for both positions, so they've been handling everything since the beginning of the year."

McCall let out a breath, "I see. Anyone I know?"

Jimmy rubbed his neck, "I don't think so, McCall, but you might have run into them. They're not," he struggled again, "easy to deal with. Well," he corrected himself, "not Northern Control, anyway. Southern Control is a little better, but not by much. They are out to prove themselves, and they haven't made too many friends, the way they are trying to run things."

"Splendid," McCall said sarcastically. "I've got a job for you Jimmy, pays the usual." He grabbed a pen, wrote down a few lines, and tore off the sheet, handing it to Jimmy. "The Guraya trafficking ring - I need some contacts to start with here in New York. Check the Company's hard files if you can access them. After you've got some names, check with Dana in case he already has some contacts. I need him to set me up as a buyer. Exotics - young boys, the like."

"Uh," Jimmy took the paper tentatively, "these new guys, McCall, they are cracking down on moonlighting jobs. If they catch me . . . ."

"Oh, all right, Jimmy," McCall said, exasperatedly, pulling out extra cash from his wallet. "You are bleeding me dry."

"Sorry McCall," Jimmy managed a half-smile.

* * *

The next day, Jimmy arrived in considerably lower spirits. Seeing Jimmy slump onto the couch, McCall took him into Scott's former bedroom and closed the door. "What is it?" he asked, concerned.

"Northern Control - I guess he got wind of Jonah and me poking around for information on the Guraya ring. He told me I'd be canned if I did anything else to help you with this one. He's sending me out on graveyard surveillance shifts this month as penance. He told me that Jonah's on thin ice too."

"And why would you suppose this new Northern Control would care about the Guraya ring?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I don't know, McCall. He's not exactly the kind of guy that invites questions."

McCall's eyes narrowed. "Jimmy," his demeanor hardened. "Tell me where I can find this new Northern Control."

"Actually," Jimmy smiled weakly. "He sent this." Jimmy pulled a note out of his pocket with an address and a time.

McCall grabbed his coat, his patience wearing thin just thinking of the bravado he knew he was about to face, "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

"The one, the only: Robert McCall, huh?" A balding, middle-aged man stood before him, leaning against an H&H Bagel sign with one arm dangling over it. "Been a long time, McCall, a long time."

_Rick_ _Barry. _McCall knew that twisted smile anywhere. The only time McCall had worked with the man was in Angola, many years ago. It was an operation that had taken its toll on McCall, primarily because he had a very, very close call, but Rick's incompetence had also initiated a premature telegram to the United States confirming McCall's demise. That telegram had been delivered by Control to Kay, McCall's then-wife, and his young son, Scott. The resulting situation had caused a lot of unnecessary mental anguish for McCall's family. Fortunately, that incident was now buried deep in his past, but the sight of Barry brought it all rushing back.

Although he was a complete failure in the field because of his utter incompetence in comprehending local politics and culture, Barry somehow snaked his way into the hearts of the Company's administration by handing over detailed accounts of his colleagues' personal vendettas, questionable activities that fell beyond the purview of the Company, overseas bank account figures, and even information that could compromise the distant relatives of field agents. Barry had proven that being a collaborator with Internal Affairs solely for one's career advancement trumped operational competence in the field. _Yet another sign of the Company's trend toward a completely amoral state_, McCall thought. He was disgusted with the choice of Barry as Northern Control, although it merely added to his overall dislike of the Company. _If I could turn back the clock_, he thought to himself, _I would take that job offer in 1957 and rip it to pieces._

McCall stared at the disheveled government lackey. His shirt had stains on it, his trousers were not ironed, and his suit jacket looked like it had been balled in the corner of his car. Barry's clothes showed his complete lack of attention to detail, and details were crucial in field operations. Now, he would spearhead all field operations in the Northern Hemisphere, and McCall could only feel sorry for the agents that would have to work under him. McCall shook his head. _So, this was what the Company was coming to. Surely, Control must still be feeling terribly ill if he was letting this man handle his affairs. _"So it's Northern Control, is it?" McCall asked, at last.

"Moving on up," Barry laughed. "But what I'm finding is that I'm cleaning up a lot of unfinished business."

"Oh," McCall looked detachedly at the man in front of him, "and what might that be?"

"This, for one," Barry dropped his smile. "You've been out, McCall, for a long time now. You're old news. You might have been pretty good at one time, but we've got loads of guys who have replaced you. Smarter guys with faster reactions, armed with better technology. Control might have thought he needed you around in the 80s, but we don't need you now. Your little business - the ad in the newspaper - you make a laughingstock of us all. You are the crazy old man that everybody whispers about behind his back. Well, I ain't whispering anymore, so here it is - straight to your face. You're over, washed up - you belong in a geriatrics ward. My information - because it is _mine_ now - is unavailable to you. For instance - the Guraya ring - I have a line on them, and it is my operation, so stay out of it. Let's just call it the "hands off" policy, O.K.? You talk to any of my men, and I will transfer them to Siberia and bring in new blood. I've already traded Jonah to Southern Control, and he is on his way to Guatemala. You know what? Computers and humidity don't mix very well, so I wonder what Jonah will end up doing there?" He laughed, shrugging. "Jimmy's next on the transfer list, so if you don't want to see him sent to . . . let's say, Romania, then stay out of my territory and away from my men. You are having a negative impact on their service records, got it? Most of these independent contractors you deal with are about up for retirement, and I don't mind trimming some fat, you know what I mean?"

"And," he paused, a grin creeping up his face. "I know you've got some off-shore accounts, McCall. I'd be more than happy to confiscate them and a hell of a lot more if you don't keep your nose out of Company business. No more information from my guys. I don't care if you think you are Santa Clause because frankly, you're just a vigilante throwing up his noose around the city when it is convenient."

He continued, "If you get in my way, I will drop so many bugs on you that you won't be able to take a shit without me knowing about it. So that's it. Stay outta my way or get crushed." He patted McCall on the cheek as he tried to walk away, but as soon as he touched McCall's face, McCall caught his hand in a pressure point between the fingers, doubling Barry's hand back almost to the point of breaking it.

"You don't play by your own 'hand's off' policy," McCall's eyes were cold as he pressed the hand back further, emitting a groan from Barry. McCall leaned in to whisper in Barry's ear. "Do not, ever," he hissed the words, "threaten me. This conversation," he paused, "is now over." He released Barry's hand and dropped into the driver's seat of his S-Type, fuming.

Rather than returning home, he pulled into a parking spot opposite O'Phelan's Restaurant & Bar. He pushed in the door, his mind buried deep in the events of the day. Looking up, he nodded at the bartender behind the counter as he took a seat at the bar. "Scotch." McCall's thoughts returned to the conversation with Barry. _Geriatrics ward?_ He was beyond furious. McCall took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Goddamnit. Jonah had been transferred to Guatemala, and he was the best computer expert he know. _McCall rubbed his eyes.

"Thought I might find you here," Control took a seat next to him, sitting down with a grimace, his chest and shoulder still a source of pain.

McCall's eyes snapped open. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Well, it's nice to see you, too." Control waved off the bartender, but McCall noticed his eyes were glassy. "Nigel said you rang?"

"I don't even know where to begin," McCall looked at the ceiling, trying to gather his emotions.

"You are going to have to make it quick," Control looked at his watch.

McCall put up a hand, "Now just wait a minute." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I'm just - it's been a long day. How are you feeling?"

Control grinned, "I feel great – I just can't operate heavy machinery."

McCall managed a weak smile. "Having seen you drive, I wouldn't say that is anything new." He cut to the chase. "I just ran into the newly minted Northern Control." McCall squinted at Control. "I didn't think you'd move that quickly on Northern and Southern Control." Control still held both positions, but he was also acting Executive Director in the interim.

Control's grin faded, and he cut off McCall before he could say anything else, "First, I don't want to talk about _that _right now," he said, referring to the OSO._ "_Second, those were the Director's choices. I didn't have anything to do with them."

"Well, your new man - and understand I don't say this lightly - makes Jason Masur look like a choirboy. He has already transferred Jonah to Guatemala, threatened something similarly sinister with Jimmy, and is for some reason blocking attempts to get information related to a Ukrainian human trafficking ring."

Control looked pained. "He's not _my_ man."

"These are still _your_ areas," McCall was losing his patience. "Listen," he said, lowering his voice, "that ring took a young boy from his home in Ukraine and trafficked him here to New York. All I need is a place to start. All I'm asking is for one name."

"I cannot interfere, Robert. They are the Director's choices."

"Director's choices be damned!" McCall's face had turned a shade redder.

"Look," Control sighed. "The only way to manage this situation is to allow them to show their true colors, and they won't do that if they don't have a free rein."

McCall shook his head in disbelief and pointed his glasses at Control, "So your brilliant plan is to give them enough rope to hang themselves? And in the meantime, I have a client with a young son who has likely been sold into human bondage. Now we know that ring specializes in sex crimes. And you can imagine what is happening to that terrorized child every single day that passes. And you are cooling your heels, playing Company politics?"

"I _cannot_ help you," Control said, firmly.

McCall fumed in frustration. "There is a big difference between _cannot_ and _will not_."

Control waved the bartender back over. "I'll need that bourbon now." Looking back at McCall, he added, "Besides, I'm not even allowed at the office right now." He anticipated the change in the conversation's direction would calm McCall's anger.

"What?" Incredulity surfaced on McCall's face. "Why?"

"A little snag with Medical."

McCall tried to read his old friend's face, but he could discern nothing of importance. Medical had a reputation at the Company for nitpicking insignificant medical conditions. McCall knew Control routinely called Dr. "Doc" Bevins, the head of Medical, to clear agents for assignments, but he clearly hadn't made any headway with his own situation. "They won't clear you," McCall said, matter-of-factly.

"They have me on a short leash," Control admitted.

"How short?" McCall threw back the last of his Scotch.

"Bed rest," Control rubbed his eyes. "They send someone over every few hours to check on me. They must think I'm a flight risk."

McCall gestured at his presence in the restaurant. "This is bed rest?"

Control shrugged, "It's about as good as it is going to get. And probably more than Doc expected."

McCall mulled his empty Scotch glass. Control's shoulder wound had been extremely minor. His chest wound had only caused serious damage in Serbia because of the nature of the puncture, not because of the fact that it had hit a lung – he had two, after all. The healing process had been well underway for a while now, and although the injuries might have been aggravating, they certainly weren't life-threatening anymore. "You've been vertical for over a month. What's going on?"

Control shrugged. "It's a small complication."

McCall pressed him, "What complication?"

"I really don't want to talk about it," Control cut off McCall's line of questioning.

"Let me send Olivia over," Robert suggested.

"I do not need your spy in the middle of my medical affairs, thank you." Control fingered his bourbon glass but otherwise left it alone.

"I wouldn't need a spy if you'd answer a simple question."

"Speaking of spies," Control gestured McCall to follow him outside. He clearly didn't want to talk about anything sensitive in O'Phelan's, and they walked into the brisk afternoon air. "I received a call from Vitali Zholtok the other day," he told McCall after they had walked a good distance from the restaurant. McCall had recently arranged a trade with Vitali in Russia, a tidy sum of money for the use of his residence to take down an internal Company mole.

"Why would Vitali call you?" McCall questioned him. "The deal was completed before we left."

"He decided he wasn't happy with the terms of the previous arrangement."

McCall's face hardened again. "Well, that isn't the wisest of chess moves, is it? Trying to extort more money given the OSO's policy concerning people who know about its very existence."

"No," Control glanced over McCall's shoulder, "it's not. But he took some troubling precautions against any other action. If, God forbid, anything happens to him, he's taken certain steps to release the information about the OSO to a Russian journalist."

This was bad news, indeed. "You can't take out an uninvolved civilian," McCall warned.

Control glared at McCall. "I will try to avoid it," annoyance edging into his voice. "Anyway, I _have_ avoided it, for the moment. Rather than just paying him off again, we came to a mutual agreement over the same amount for some stale KGB files."

McCall stared hard at Control. "What files?"

Control hesitated. He looked as though he wanted to add something but abruptly decided against it. "I'm still reviewing them."

"On bed rest?"

Control snorted, "It isn't as restful as you might think. There's something else I've been meaning to talk to you about since we got back."

"Let me guess," McCall sighed deeply, reminded of their discussion about the OSO on the helicopter back.

"I was thinking about what you said – about a backup plan," Control said quietly. "You were right. I was looking through the files - Dulles originally intended that there be a broader base of executive power to offset the OSO's secretive nature. With the exception of the chairman and the vice chairman – which was Masada until . . . recently - they never set up the rest of the executive board."

McCall found the whole idea of the OSO unbelievable; this was just another example of why. "Why does this not surprise me?" The executive branch had set up a secret intra-agency organization and utterly failed to address potentially dangerous and damaging abuse of power issues.

"If something happens," Control stopped walking, "and I can't shut it down, then at least a board could provide something of a safeguard."

McCall ran his hand over his forehead, finally narrowing his eyes at Control. "Do you think something is going to happen?"

Control's face was unreadable. "No. But getting a sitting president to sign a secret executive order to close down his pet agency and its slush fund will be a tough sell."

McCall put up a hand, "It's risky. If you don't get the right people," he warned, "the whole thing could be taken out of your hands, and there goes your whole plan to end that dirty business."

"Just think about it, will you? I need some names, and I must be sure before I approach them." Because of its secretive nature, the OSO did not tolerate dissent, and internal policies dictated that it unilaterally cancelled those with knowledge of its existence who did not fall under its umbrella.

"I don't want to be on that list," McCall glared.

Control smiled, "There's no list yet."

McCall snorted, "That isn't an answer."

Control glanced at his watch and flagged down a cab. "I'm afraid I'm out of time; I've got to get back."

McCall grabbed his arm before he stepped into the cab. "The Guraya ring - one name."

"My hands are tied, Robert," he replied as he closed the cab door.

McCall cursed Control as the cab disappeared. The Guraya ring was going to be more difficult to crack than he had anticipated.

* * *

McCall returned home, running names and contacts through his head. Dana Cauldron– an independent contractor who also worked as a pimp – was his best contact for any problem involving the sex trade, but this glitch with Northern Control was going to make using any of the Company's contractors difficult. He sat down on his couch, sighing. He couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the day had been a complete disaster when he heard a distinct knock on his door. Elena had gone out for a walk, so McCall assumed it was her, returning, but when he opened the door, Mickey was leaning against the molding on the other side. "Hi, McCall," he zipped off his jacket. "Do you have anything going on?" He crossed the room and threw his coat on the couch.

McCall looked at the door and back at Mickey, suspicion in his eyes. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, I just got canned," Mickey shrugged. "I met the new Northern Control this morning, and I gave him two fingers. Let's just say they weren't thumbs up."

McCall let a half-smile crack his businesslike veneer. "I could use some assistance," he thought of Mickey's connections in the city's Polish communities. Perhaps he could network through them to some Ukrainian contacts. "It will require a bit of legwork."

Mickey grinned, "Sounds like it is right up my alley."

* * *

Control made it home in time to hear a knock on his door. Adelaide Collins was a very young physician's assistant. For a twenty-something, she had an aura of authority, which was probably why Doc Bevins kept sending her in lieu of the older medical staff Control had already intimidated into submission over the years. Her bedside manner, however, left something to be desired.

She pointed to the nearest leather chair, "Sit." He obliged, wordlessly. He had already found it was best not to aggravate Adelaide with small talk.

She rolled up his sleeve and took his blood pressure. "High," she said, with a look of disapproval. She took out his chart and scratched a few notes. "Have you been out and about?"

"I'm not allowed a walk around the block?"

She glanced at him disapprovingly. "I take it you have not adequately reviewed your doctor's orders," she took out a photocopy and laid it on the table next to him. "I would remind you," she said curtly as she took a blood sample, "that the half-life of J-49 indicates its toxicity is rapidly decreasing and it will fall below the risk zone in less than two weeks. Can you possibly control yourself for another two weeks?"

"Is that a clever pun?" he asked lightly. A disapproving stare. "I guess not," he said, under his breath. "I promise to do my very best," he added.

"You _will_ do more than that," she stated, simply as she flicked a syringe. "Did you experience any of the preictal signs Doc discussed with you?"

"No." Control looked at the syringe. "Is this still necessary?"

She looked at him curiously, "We may not know that much about this particular drug, but we do know the high risk J-49 poses if we don't regulate the cortisol in your blood stream until it falls below the risk zone. You were injected with J-49 on New Year's . . . ."

Control cut her off, "And that was over three months ago. This routine seems a bit excessive, even for Doc. Besides, if stress was going to trigger it, I'm sure it would have happened on my little jaunt to Serbia."

"I don't think you understand that the half-life of J-49 is almost 4 months. It doesn't dissipate quickly in the bloodstream. The stage that requires drug intervention will be over shortly." For the first time that night, her face finally softened. "It really is only a few more weeks." Her mask of authority resumed. "Just keep your blood pressure down," she commanded as she injected him with a sedative and mild hypnotic.

As Adelaide let herself out, Control returned to his desk. He could already feel the numbness beginning in his extremities, but he knew he had a few minutes before it completely knocked him out. It had been a long year for his medical dossier, and he was relieved the end was finally in sight. _The stage that requires drug intervention -_ her phrasing wasn't entirely promising for keeping Bevins at bay. He'd had a career to figure out how to use words to dance around the truth, so picking up on the silent deceit of others came easily. _The next stage p__robably involved coerced vacations - although that could come in handy; he had a lot of delicate matters that would be best left outside the purview of the Company._

He pulled a file folder off his desk. _This was, no doubt, one of those matters. _A typed label read: "Манон Бревард Марцел." He flipped open the folder, turning to the final few pages. A photo was clipped to the file. A woman had been caught looking at the camera, her face and scalp bludgeoned with the signs of physical abuse; her eyes dulled with pain. The photo was captioned in Cyrillic with the name, "Manon Brevard Marcel" and a date less than a month after her flight went down in the French Alps. She had always been such an intelligent woman. Until now, she'd been written off as a psychotic, but if she escaped, she could likely do the Company - and him - a great deal of damage. He tucked the file into a small stack locked in his floor safe and withdrew another file from his desk drawer. Inside were a few Police reports and a state commitment form with his request line printed on the front. It was risky to have his request line on the commitment form, but it was a necessary evil. The forms also listed him as Manon's sole visitor, periodically, over the last ten years. He stared at two sets of fingerprints - her FBI prints and a set of modified fingerprints. _As long as no one else pieces this together_, he thought, _she can have __all the time in the world. _He flipped the folder closed and headed to bed with the image of Manon lingering in his mind as the curtain of darkness was drawn over his consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Yuriy Tereshchenko woke up in a small room, the door locked and reinforced on the other side. He wiped blood from his nose. His jaw felt broken, he could barely move it, and his tongue was swollen.

Just a few weeks ago, he had exited the plane onto the tarmac in New York in January with a broad grin, a grin that had diminished as the man that had greeted him took his passport. "We'll hold it for you - for safekeeping," the man had informed him in Ukrainian. "It's safer for you and for us. If you lose it - well, the Police here won't like it very much. And for us - it ensures that you will pay us back for your flight and all the trouble we went through to bring you here." Yuriy had been taken, wide-eyed, to a building in Brooklyn. Yuriy had so many questions - when would he start? Who would he work for? How much would he be able to send home? Could he call his mother?

Josep Mayko had greeted him in his native language when he arrived at the building. "Yuriy," he said, "I'm afraid that I've got some bad news. After we went to all that work to get you here, the American pulled out. You can always go home, but we will need the money we used to bring you here before we can send you back."

Yuriy was in a new land, and he didn't know anyone. His passport was gone, and he didn't know what to say. "I-I don't have any money," he stuttered. He had brought a small rucksack with all his belongings. He certainly didn't have any money in his pockets - that is why he came to America, to the land of opportunity.

"Look, Yuriy," Josep said, "I'm sorry, but this is business. I don't have money to send you back. How are you going to feed yourself? Where will you stay? No one is your mother here. Nothing is free."

"What can I do?" Yuriy realized this was quickly becoming complicated.

A woman entered the room and stood near Yuriy, drawing a finger over him. "Oh, don't be so mean, Josep. He can make a lot of money. Don't throw him onto the street - they will throw him into prison, and then how will he get home and help his little brother?

"Anichka, stay out of this," Josep cut her off.

"Wait," Yuriy stopped him, "please - my little brother needs heart surgery. I want to work. What can I do?"

"Well, we specialize in services," Josep shrugged. "There is one service people always pay for." He stared at Yuriy, not breaking his gaze. "You can make a lot of money, Yuriy, if you cooperate." Under his breath, he added, "And if you don't, you'll still make _me_ a lot of money."

Yuriy took a step back, shaking his head. "I don't know what you mean," but he knew exactly what they meant.

"Look Yuriy, it's not that bad," Anichka draped her arm over his shoulder, whispering into his ear. "It can be very nice - and the money is even nicer."

Yuriy shook his head; this is not what he had come here for. "No."

"Yuriy, you don't really have a choice," Josep backhanded him into the wall and brought an elbow down on Yuriy's shoulder, dropping him to the floor. It was the beginning of several weeks of beatings until he was worn down, battered and bloody, reluctantly compliant.

After those first few weeks, he had been transferred to his little room, equipped only with an old bed and a bucket for urine. He never knew if it was day or night - there were no windows. His visitors would come at all times. He spent weeks curled in the corner, choking back his own tears. Now, after another month, his eyes had dulled, the fight draining from them. He had escaped once, but he had not made it far before Josep had caught him, dragging him back to the same room. That had precipitated his broken jaw.

Yuriy thought of the steel factories in his hometown, little curls of smoke rising from their stacks. Those factories were the offices of his father and uncles. He would trade anything to get back to those back-breaking hours spent in the steel factories.

What had happened to little Vadim and his mother? Would they know what had happened to him? His eyes were desolate as he thought of the world that seemed so far away.

He heard the door of his hell open again, and he inched into a tighter ball, refusing to look at the newest visitor.

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer had polled his Polish contacts for any information, but they didn't have any fresh leads on new human trafficking rings, especially Ukrainian ones. "There's a few Eastern European brothels here," an acquaintance had handed him a few Brooklyn addresses. Mickey had cased all of them except one, and none of them were anything but backyard establishments which certainly wouldn't have the network or means to traffic humans from Eastern Europe. But on arrival at the last address, he knew he had found a jackpot. The building reeked of high rollers. Mickey scoped a position on an opposite building and took out surveillance equipment, surreptitiously documenting the individuals who came and went throughout the day.

Later that afternoon, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his coat. He pulled his gloves off and flipped it out, seeing McCall's number on the caller ID. "Yeah," he said quietly.

"Any success?" McCall asked.

"Not exactly. I got a few leads on people to use as openers - but if we can't use the Company system to run their photographs, we might be out of luck unless you can get the Police to run them for you."

"Everyone in that business knows everyone else," McCall mused. "I have some contacts that may give us some insight on the people going in and out. Are you sure you found the right place?"

"I don't know," Kostmayer changed the digital chip in his camera as he talked, "but it looks like the kind of place where whoever is running it would know how to get a few new bodies for their business."

"Is it well-established?"

"Sure is."

"Good," McCall wrote down the address. "Bring the photos after you get them printed."

"Righto," Mickey flipped off the phone, zipping up his coat in the chilly March air.

* * *

McCall had returned home after a long and fruitless day out. He was happy to hear Mickey had more luck than he did, but his discussion with Mickey reminded him that the other communities that served sex tourists could be helpful in smoking out the Guraya ring. Although he'd had a few roadblocks thrown up in his search for Yuriy, he knew it would only be a matter of time before he located the boy. He updated Elena and told her they were making progress - albeit slow.

After dinner, she had been chatting with him over a glass of white wine on the couch when the doorbell rang, unexpectedly. McCall turned, distracted. _Who could this be?_ "One moment," he turned toward the door, peering through the eyehole, his face showing surprise when he saw who was waiting on the other side of the door. His face broke into a tentative smile as he opened the door to a well-dressed woman on the other side.

"Hi, Robert!" came the enthusiastic greeting.

"Yvette," he turned in confusion, noting her suitcases, "come in, come in." He took the bags from his daughter and set them down for her.

"I was at an art show in Philadelphia, so I thought I would just pop over for a few days." She was beaming, and her smile was infectious.

"Yes," McCall gestured toward Elena, who had come to the living room in response to the doorbell, "please meet Elena Tereshchenko, one of my clients. She's staying here while we locate her son." He bit on the end of his glasses in thought.

"Oh," Yvette looked confused, her exuberance diminishing, "I didn't realize you had company; I didn't mean to barge in. If you are busy. . . ."

"No, no," McCall soothed her, "it's quite all right." His face wasn't entirely convincing.

"I-I heard what happened to my godfather. I'm so glad you all returned safely. I was going to stop over and see both of you while I was on the coast. I should have called."

McCall's face lightened immediately. Yvette had her godfather wrapped around her finger, and if anyone could get water from a stone, it would be her. Control's insistence on putting together an OSO board immediately was worrisome. It was entirely possible that his condition was not a "minor complication." She would, no doubt, be able to unearth the truth quickly. "Yvette," he put a conspiring arm around her shoulder, "you know he hasn't been feeling well since he got back. I've been meaning to get over to see him, but you can see I've been occupied with a few other things. You have indeed arrived at the perfect time – you could do both of us a tremendous favor."

"Sure," she smiled, "what can I do?"

* * *

Yvette settled into the broad couch in Control's living room. His Company penthouse had a spectacular view, and the lights of Manhattan twinkled through broad picture windows. In better weather, the picture windows folded back into a rooftop deck with a terraced garden and a tranquil but shallow reflecting pool. Since she had arrived, though, the weather had howled its disapproval. Unfortunately, the broad glass windows that formed part of the ceiling in places also revealed the weather's nastiness, but tonight, although the wind was blowing through the streets of New York, the sky was clear, and a few faint stars could be discerned in the evening sky, diminished only by the strength of the city's lights.

Control had offered Yvette the keys to his other residence when she had arrived, but she had declined, pointing out that half the reason she had ventured to New York was to spend some time with him. He had been unsettled by the request but generous when she had asked him for a place to stay. She was, after all, his goddaughter, and he'd been forced to admit, reluctantly, he was still having some medical difficulties, but he conveniently neglected to fill her in on any details. She had told him about walking in on McCall and Elena; he had seemed sympathetic. But there was something else – since he had first seen her, he seemed different, unsettled, on edge.

At first, Yvette attributed his tenseness to his ongoing medication schedule and his home-confinement (which he didn't seem to follow with any regularity, anyway). But she dismissed it as she tried to discern the reason he was getting regular visits from the Medical section. Yvette had noted that Adelaide would arrive twice a day, and although she was only in her twenties, Control demurely took instructions from her, albeit broodingly. After Adelaide's brief visits behind closed doors, he would almost immediately retire, and a sedation agent would knock him out for several hours. It saddened Yvette, his recent medical difficulties. It reminded her that he and Robert were getting older, and after her mother had been killed in the plane crash and her father shot down in cold blood, they – along with her aunt in Quebec - were really the only family from her parent's generation that she had left, and they, too, wouldn't be around forever.

After a few days, Yvette sensed acutely that it wasn't mere edginess that was making him uneasy but her presence. Several times, he had drifted into deep thought, his eyes on her, as if she had reminded him of something, but he had caught himself and snapped back into reality. And she noticed that his standoffishness was demonstrably unlike the warmness he had exhibited toward her since she was a child.

Near the end of her visit, she peeked into the master bedroom, noting he had passed out in the darkness, and she had briefly looked around for his medical file again. She suspected, after searching for it fruitlessly, that Adelaide had been taking it with her back to the office. She turned toward his study. His penthouse seemed so devoid of character – cold, antiseptic. His study was the one place he had departed from the Company's modern décor, and it felt warmer, more personal. She knew his use of the penthouse revolved around how much work he was doing – it was secured by Company guards, had Top Secret security systems, and was even equipped with fledging technology upgrades care of the Science & Technology Directorate.

She balanced on the edge of his leather office chair, opening the drawers slowly, soundlessly. She peered in without moving anything. Nothing stood out. There were a few files on his desk. She fanned them out in case his medical file was located on his desk. She uncovered a chart plotting his blood pressure against an average. She noticed it had steadily increased in the past two weeks, and it had peaked in the last week. She made a mental note of it and carefully slid it back between the files when she noticed a small handwritten note had fallen onto the desk. All it said was: Manon – (318)555-4037. It was the name of her mother who had been killed in the French Alps so long ago. She gasped.

Yvette glanced into the hallway, listening for any sounds. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed the number, wondering what it could mean. The phone rang twice. "King's Oaks Hospital," came the voice from the other side. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she hung up quickly. She had heard of it - it was one of the most expensive mental institutions on the East Coast. She swiftly dug through the files and finally located the one the note had fallen from. Her eyes grew even wider as she riffled through the folder. Even if this was the woman who had surfaced 11 years before – who Robert and Control had assured her wasn't her mother – why would Control write _Manon_ on the paper. Yvette recalled that woman – the woman who had looked and sounded so much like her mother – had been terrified of Control. She tucked the file into her large purse, grabbed her coat, and took the elevator downstairs. She calmed herself with a deep inhale and exhale before she stepped out of the elevator. She smiled and waved at the guards in the lobby, and she flagged a cab as soon as she stepped out of the building. She gave the driver McCall's address.

Yvette tried to calm herself in the cab, but she could only come up with more questions. Her heart was beating faster and faster. She flipped out her cell phone and dialed McCall's apartment.

The ringing phone roused McCall from his sleep, and he groggily wandered to the phone. "Hello," he flipped on a light and immediately regretted it. "Hello, hello," he said again as his pupil's adjusted to the glaring light.

"Robert?" Yvette clutched the cell closer, "It's Yvette. Please, I need your help."

McCall's eyes snapped open; he was utterly awake, now. "What is it?"

"I'm on my way to your apartment. Can you meet me?"

"Of course." The phone clicked off. "Yvette?" He hit the receiver a few times. _Damnit_. He hadn't gotten her location. He took a breath as he checked his gun's location. He unlocked his front door, awaiting Yvette.

Less than 10 minutes later, she burst through it, unloading the file from her purse as she crossed the threshold. "What is this?" McCall asked, flipping open the file.

"I thought you could tell me," she searched his eyes for some clue as to what to believe. Was her mother really alive? Did Control have something to do with it? Did Robert?

McCall put on his glasses and stared intently at the file for several minutes, fingering the same handwritten note that had fallen out at Control's apartment. "Where did you get this?" his voice was calm, neutral.

"From Control's desk. He's sleeping - care of some sedatives from the Medical section. The number – it is a psychiatric hospital in Upstate, New York."

McCall frowned. "Sedatives care of the Medical section?"

"Yes," Yvette confirmed, "they send someone over every evening. He had a chart showing he has had high blood pressure lately - that's all I could find."

McCall took this piece of news in stride as he continued examining the documents. He needed some time. Taking the manila envelope into a back room, he quickly took copies of everything in the file. "Let me handle this," he looked into his daughter's eyes. "I _will_ get to the bottom of it. Until then, I need you to return this to his desk in the exact place you found it. There may be a reasonable explanation, but I need a little time to investigate. He_ will _notice if it is not in the same place. Put it back and _do not mention it to him, do you understand?_"

Her eyes wide, Yvette nodded. "I leave for Quebec tomorrow evening, but I could change my flight arrangements . . . ."

"No," McCall stopped her. "Pack your things tomorrow and have them sent ahead to the airport. I will investigate the veracity of this file tomorrow morning, and we will have a little chat with him before you leave." He looked at the woman before him, trembling with anxiousness. "Yvette, I don't want you to get your hopes up. It is unlikely that your mother is alive. Even if we turn up new information, it could take months to unearth what it means. Let me handle this from here." Yvette nodded, putting her trust in McCall. McCall drove her back to the Company apartments and dropped her off a block away.

A few minutes later, Yvette had snuck back into the quiet and dark apartment, replacing the file exactly as she had found it. She looked into Control's bedroom; the soft rise and fall of his chest convinced her that he had not awakened in the time she had been gone. She went to bed, sleeping fitfully, more and more questions surfacing in her mind.


	5. Chapter 5

McCall watched Yvette retreat from the warmth of his Jaguar, his mind pouring over the events of the past hour. His heart had almost stopped beating when he had seen that name again - Manon. He had loved her desperately, long ago, but he had struggled between a love so intense it scared him and a career which required his entire soul. The Company had a strict policy on agents marrying other agents - it was not tolerated, and they would have both been forced to leave the Company. It had happened to his good friends - Mark & Pete O'Phelan. So instead of leaving the Company, McCall had chosen to leave Manon. It was, undoubtedly, the biggest regret of his life.

They had both gone on to have families - he and Kay, she and Philip, but he had never stopped thinking of her, thinking of what might have been. And then she had been killed in that terrible plane crash in the Alps. He had found out only later from Control that she had been on a mission, sent by Control, to stop his planned execution. Over a decade ago, Arthur Trent had appeared with a woman who looked and talked like Manon, but she hadn't known the one secret they had shared, so many years ago - _Midnight Transposition. _It had been a code known only to the two of them - if times were desperate, if they couldn't get out of a situation, they would commit suicide. He had tested the woman, but she hadn't known the meaning of _Midnight Transposition_, and he had been convinced that it wasn't her. He had thought about that poor woman on occasion _- _she'd clearly been forced to help Arthur Trent kill Philip Marcel, Manon's husband. But McCall had helped the woman escape because of the trauma, the torture she had clearly endured at Trent's hands.

Nevertheless, he had never been quite certain that it wasn't Manon; although she even had Manon's birthmark. "It's your heart above mine," he had told her once, in private. She had known that; she had repeated the words back to him. But she hadn't known _Midnight Transposition_. The woman had also accused Control of putting a bomb on the plane before it had crashed in the Alps, intending it for her. He hadn't believed her. Control had known Manon since the Sorbonne, and that had been ages ago, before either of them had joined the Company. Control even admitted he had been in love with her, from afar, then. Control was the oldest of friends with Philip Marcel, her husband, and he had been named godfather to their child, Yvette. He was the only person besides Philip that Manon had entrusted with the secret that Yvette was, in fact, Robert's child. And Control had carried her secret for her, silently, years after she died, until Philip lay dying and told Robert, himself.

McCall couldn't entertain the idea that Control would willingly send Manon to her death. It would be an utter betrayal of the deep trust he had placed in Control over the years. There was little that could convince him that Control had been involved - or that he would cover up her presumed death and forcibly separate her from her family for all these years, even as duplicitous as the Black Ops chief could sometimes be. And why would he lock away the woman who had appeared 11 years ago claiming to be Manon if it hadn't been her, at all? Even if - by the slimmest of chances - it had been Manon - why would he cover up her existence and throw her into a mental hospital? There were no answers that made any sense, and yet, here was sinister evidence, in Control's own handwriting, from his own desk.

McCall felt torn asunder. He wanted desperately to believe that Manon was still alive, that he could have a chance to right the mistakes of his past, but it would mean that Control had lied to him, all this time, about the one thing McCall would never be able to forgive him for. But he would trade anything for a miracle - the miracle that Manon was still alive, even old friendships. He would have to go to King's Oaks and see if it was, indeed, her with his own eyes.

He shook himself out of the thoughts of Manon and back into the present. He had one more thing to do tonight before he could go home and look through Manon's file with excruciating exactness. He called Mickey and confirmed their meeting in Manhattan. Pulling the Jag into nighttime traffic, he headed for Chinatown.

* * *

McCall waved Kostmayer over as he arrived to a glittering club in Chinatown. "Let's go," he told Mickey.

They entered the busy club and approached the bartender. "What can I getcha?" the bartender asked, busily taking other orders at the same time.

"Tommie Li," McCall said, his face serious.

The bartender looked McCall over with a scowl. "Gotta have an appointment," he shrugged McCall off.

"How's this?" McCall pulled out a triad emblazoned with a dragon. He had received it years ago, and it was the only calling card Tommie Li recognized.

The bartender glanced at the triad and back at McCall. "Wait here." He sent a message up to the depths of the club where the private patron rooms were located and Tommie Li's inner office could be found. She sent her head of personnel relations down to escort McCall and Kostmayer up.

"Hello, McCall," Tommie said, inviting them to sit down on the veranda overlooking the rest of the club. "It has been a long time." The well-dressed woman had emeralds sprinkled over her gold jewelry, her French nails perfectly coiffed. McCall noted her armed guards were close by, chatting with patrons.

"Indeed," McCall took a proffered champagne. "You're doing even better than the last time I was here, I see." He looked over the club - it had been enlarged and modernized since his last visit, years before. Financed by Tommie's drug business, undoubtedly.

"What brings you here?" she asked.

"I have a business proposal," he said, tipping the champagne glass toward her.

"I'm listening," she smiled.

"There is a Ukrainian human trafficking ring that has recently inflicted itself upon this city. We would like to dismantle it."

Tommie looked surprised. "I don't have anything to do with human trafficking."

"Oh," McCall took a sip of his champagne, "I'm sure you don't, Tommie. But this," he motioned his champagne glass around the room, "was not made on drugs alone. You know the major players in the sex tourism business, whether they come to your district or go to another. I'm just looking for some information."

"So what is my angle?" She asked, businesslike.

"My colleague here has taken some photographs. We would like some assistance in identifying the patrons of a certain Ukrainian establishment. And then, all we need is an introduction."

Tommie Li smiled, "That sounds like bad news."

"No," McCall smiled back, his eyes serious, "we will assist that establishment in ousting their new competition - which is our target. They will be grateful to you for the introduction, I can assure you."

Tommie Li looked at McCall with an air of detachment. "So, I will receive their gratefulness?"

"You can," he leaned in closer, "ask for whatever you want. I just want the introduction."

"Let's see the photographs," she motioned to Mickey to lay them out on the table in front of her.

* * *

After Tommie had identified two individuals in the photographs, they narrowed down their target in the photos to a minority shareholder in the Ukrainian brothel Mickey had found. Tommie had phoned the target and arranged a meeting. "Pleasure doing business with you again, Tommie," McCall said as he set down his champagne glass.

"The pleasure is all mine," she returned.

After they left her establishment, McCall called Kostmayer over. "Mickey," he looked distracted. "Something important has come up, I need you to set up the meeting with the principal - I'll be busy tomorrow."

"Sure, McCall," Kostmayer shrugged, "I can set it all up. You want me to call you when its ready to go?"

McCall nodded.

"Hey," Mickey said, noticing McCall's face, "anything else I can help with?"

McCall shook his head, "No. It's . . . personal."

Mickey shrugged, "O.K." He added, "You know where I am if you need me."

McCall smiled genuinely, "Thanks, Mickey. I do appreciate it."

* * *

Early the next morning, Robert McCall drove to Upstate, New York. By late morning, he had parked opposite a majestic estate with rolling lawns and extensive gardens. He noticed the long driveway was flanked by towering oak trees. A plaque at the gate informed him that they had been planted in honor of King George III prior to the U.S. Revolution, hence the estate's name: King's Oaks. He looked over the remarkable Victorian buildings towering over him. It had a pleasant atmosphere, and he noticed what he supposed were patients, strolling on wooded paths and in the nearby gardens.

At the gate, a guard signed him in, sending him to the main office. He noted that the gated estate had extensive security features, and the guards were well equipped and alert. The exterior had multiple cameras and secure 12-foot wrought iron fencing. In addition, he could see that it was well-lit at night. There were security lights every few feet on the outdoor paths and emergency phone boxes tucked into stands nearby. It didn't look like a prison, but it certainly had all the security features of one.

The receptionist greeted him and asked him to sign in again. After she verified his signature with a picture ID, she asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. McCall?"

"I'm here to look at a possible place for my mother," he motioned down the hallway. "Would it be possible to get a tour and meet with the management team?"

"Certainly, Mr. McCall," she quickly phoned another office. "Guest relations will be here with you in a moment."

Within minutes, a tall brunette greeted McCall. "Cassandra Llewellyn," she offered a slender hand, smiled, and showed him into an elegant boardroom. She flipped on a couple of monitors that ran a 5-minute introduction to the facility. When she turned the lights up, she pointed out that most of the grounds were closed for tours because of patient privacy, which was why they had a 3-D model on the table, the video introduction, and a shorter tour around common areas. "Now tell me," she slid a thick prospectus to him, "about your mother's condition."

"Dementia," he said, simply, flipping through the prospectus for a few minutes before finally closing it.

"We have excellent facilities for dementia patients," Cassandra cooed, "we have a wing devoted solely to them."

"Oh?" McCall question, "Your other patients are in totally separate wings?"

"Yes, depending on their illness and care needs. Many of our patients live robust lives and are able to maintain apartment suites with minimal intrusion by staff. Other patients need a great deal more intervention and care, such as dementia patients. We do tailor our services to the needs of each patient."

McCall nodded. If they had apartment suites, the price tag on the facility must be staggering. It was professionally run and very secure. If Control had meant to lock her away from prying eyes, he'd found a very good facility. Getting a patient out of here would pose some difficulties.

Cassandra took him on a brief tour and walked him around the common areas, which were bright and cheerful. McCall had scanned for Manon, but she hadn't been in any of the common areas. At the conclusion of the tour, Cassandra took him back by the receptionist. "I do hope you will consider us for your mother's needs," she departed with a wave after giving him a card.

McCall turned to the receptionist. "You know, I think I remember that one of my classmates was moved here recently. I don't know if you have visiting hours right now, but . . ."

"Oh yes," the receptionist responded brightly, "visiting hours aren't over until 8 p.m. for most patients. What's her name?"

"Madeline Doe," McCall replied.

The receptionist typed in the name and pulled up her information on the internal system. "Oh yes, she's here," she scrolled down. "But she's on restricted visitor access, I'm afraid."

McCall buried his agitation. From his vantage point, he could see part of the receptionist's screen, and it had a photo digitally attached. "I'm sorry to intrude, but it's just been so long since I've seen her. Do you, by chance, have a photo of her? It would be great to see what she looks like after all these years."

"Oh sure, no problem," the receptionist said, swinging the monitor toward him.

In an instant, McCall scanned the rest of the file on the screen - "No visitors allowed," it read, in bold. There wasn't much else on that screen, and his eyes came to rest on the picture. She was a decade older, but she still took his breath away. It was Manon.

"Is that her?" the receptionist asked.

McCall blinked quickly, bringing himself back to the present. "Yes, yes, that's her. That's definitely her."

"You can always leave a note, if you like."

McCall shook his head, "No, no, no note. I'd rather go home and think of something appropriate in a letter, I think."

"Great, I'm sure she'd like that," the receptionist smiled again. "Don't forget to sign out here and at the security checkpoint at the entrance."

"Thank you," McCall murmured, still thinking of the face in the photo. He walked slowly back to his car. He called Yvette and left a time to meet her at Control's apartment.


	6. Chapter 6

McCall walked into the lobby of Control's apartment and saw the Company security guards. They stopped him as he walked past. "Mr. McCall, I'm sorry but we need your gun," one of them waved him over.

"Really, gentleman? Do we really need to call upstairs again? I mean, it is getting rather old, this little routine."

The security guards glanced at each other, and the senior officer reluctantly nodded McCall upstairs with a sigh. "Don't get us fired, McCall," he called out to McCall's retreating back.

"Well that's hardly likely, is it?" McCall muttered under his breath after he left his gun at the desk. He turned and hit the elevator's button. When it arrived, he stepped into it, taking it in silence to the top floor. He arrived to a familiar door. Before he touched the door, Yvette opened it, leading him toward the suite's interior and Control's study.

McCall strode into Control's study, Yvette a step behind him. Noticing his arrival, Control took off his reading glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "Look Robert," he tried to stop McCall before he launched into a lecture on Company politics again, "I honestly didn't even hear about the Guraya ring until you brought it to me. I don't know who . . ." he stopped, midsentence, seeing McCall's face. McCall tossed the file with the copies he and Yvette had made the night before onto Control's desk.

"What's this?" Control asked.

"Open it," McCall said, his voice chillingly cold.

Control flipped open the folder, and McCall noticed his expression did not change as saw the contents. Control closed the folder again, wordlessly.

"Did you have Manon Marcel committed to an insane asylum 11 years ago?" McCall asked, pointedly.

Control glanced over McCall's shoulder at Yvette and back to McCall. "No," he said firmly, "I had the woman who was impersonating Manon and who was complicit in Philip's murder committed." He pulled out the fingerprints in the file and flashed them at his visitors. "These are Manon's prints as taken by the FBI, and these," he pulled out a set taken by the KGB, "are the other woman's. I wrote that note," he pulled out the phone number with Manon's name on it, "to remind me that it was Manon's impersonator in that facility. Before McCall could protest, he added, "Yvette, would you excuse us for a few minutes. There are some matters of state security at issue, and I need a moment to discuss them with your father privately."

Yvette turned to McCall and he nodded at her; he would be along in a few minutes. She shut the door on her way out.

McCall pointed to the prints. "Those are the same set of prints, Control. It's clear they have been altered through acid or some other device, but the general outline of the prints remain. Those prints are the same – that woman is Manon."

"Of course it's Manon," Control said, glancing at the closed door.

McCall's face instantly blanked. "You admit it's her?" The confirmation hit him with a wave of emotion, but it was overtaken by agitation as he struggled to comprehend the situation. "Why these games?" He pointed to the door Yvette had just disappeared through. "You admit that it _is _Manon – why did you just lie to Yvette?"

"Robert," Control tried to soothe his agitation. "Manon is a broken woman. She was tortured for years. Her mind is a jumble – she can't piece together sequences or events. Is this how you want Yvette to meet her mother after all these years? Do you want to destroy the image of that gifted, intellectual woman she once knew? Manon would never want her daughter to see her like she is now: shattered, confused, a shadow of her former self."

McCall's eyes turned to embers. "Aren't we all broken, Control? Broken by the Company? Who among us can say he is whole now, after a lifetime of the Company's manipulation and lies? Who are you to judge who is to be released back to the world and who is insane? What gives you the right," his fury was building, "to condemn her to an institution for a decade? Who made you God?"

Control sighed and said quietly, "I didn't commit her, Robert."

McCall shook his head. "You just admitted that you did - now you say that you didn't. It's getting very hard to tell when you are lying, Control. But I don't need to discern when you are lying because these papers," he pointed to the file, "have your fingerprints all over them. Your request line," he pulled out the commitment paper, "is here." A look of disgust crossed McCall's face. "Why would you do it?" There was only one answer; a look of realization dawned on McCall's face. "You sent her to her death. You intended for her to die on that plane."

Control rubbed his eyes: this was going to be much harder to explain. McCall saw the hesitation. "She told me it was you, when we were in that room with Arthur Trent, and I didn't believe her – I didn't believe it was in you to send her to her death in France. You lied all this time. Tell me Control," McCall spit the words through clenched teeth, "What was it? What was so important that you would trade the life of an agent? And not any agent but Manon – a woman you'd known for years. A woman who trusted you, implicitly, with her very life. A woman who trusted you so much that she appointed you as the godfather of her daughter. What was it that turned your soul so cold, that you would turn your back on her and sentence her to death - or worse than death – a lifetime of torture? And when she is finally returned home a decade ago – do you help her? No, you exact another price, worse than the first, to protect yourself - condemning her to years of mental anguish, locked inside that insidious place."

Control leaned back in his office chair, hearing McCall's agitation rise. But rather than meeting McCall's gaze, his head was bowed, his eyes drifting back to sometime in the past, his face brooding. He had been responsible for sending her on that plane, and he felt a keen sense of guilt for his role in what had happened. He had, after all, asked her to go, those many years ago.

Seeing Control's demeanor confirmed his thoughts, and McCall launched across the room in fury, catching Control by the lapels and hauling him to his feet. Inches from his face, McCall struggled for words, his anger burning. "What was it? A piece of information? A little disk? A few ones and zeros? Was that the price?"

Control's face was dark, his hands loose at his side. He knew better than to engage McCall in his blind rage, and he had never seen McCall in fury this intense. Robert McCall was the most dangerous man he had ever known, and he was now at his most dangerous, his fury raging. There was nothing Control could say, no explanation that McCall would hear in this state. Manon had been the love of McCall's life, and McCall blamed himself for never returning to her before the plane crash in the Alps. If McCall had a raw temper on any other day, it was nothing compared to this burning abyss, and only the memory of Manon could light a fire such as this. Control forced himself to bury his own anger and remain calm, letting his muscles relax from the tension McCall was injecting into them, but in an instant he felt a hard right connect with his jaw, knocking him off balance. In the moment it took him to recover from the punch, McCall had disarmed him of his holstered gun and had turned it back on him. It was the gun Ben Silver had given him, years ago now. Ben had an inscription etched on the barrel: _Man perishes not from darkness but from the cold_. Control looked down the barrel of it now, seeing the icy expression on McCall's face.

When McCall had unexpectedly thrown the file down in front of him, Control had known it would go badly but not this badly. The evidence was damning, and McCall's discovery of it was the worst possible turn of events at the worst possible time. "Robert," he said, very gently, "this is not what it looks like. Please give me a chance to explain," he said, slowly, trying to find his friend behind the mask of rage.

McCall's face hardened into a dangerously unreadable state. "I don't need any more explanations, Control. You have lied consistently throughout the years, but I never thought you would be capable of doing this to one of your own agents - especially Manon." He cocked the gun. "You will never," he hissed the word with incredible force, "go near her again. Do you hear me?"

"You are inserting yourself into a very delicate situation," Control said, his voice strained.

McCall cut him off, curtly. "Damn you."

Only the idea of Manon's torture and death could bring out this vitriol in McCall. Control watched as McCall dumped the contents of the gun's clip on the carpeted floor and slammed it down on Control's desk. McCall spun on his heel and disappeared through the door. Control watched McCall's retreating back with a mixture of emotions. He couldn't help but feel that their friendship was disintegrating with each of McCall's retreating footsteps.

Slowly, he stepped around the desk and picked up each bullet lying on the floor and deliberately reloaded his clip, slipping it back into the gun with a click. He placed the loaded gun in the middle of his desk and contemplated it at length. Ben Silver, who had given it to him, had committed suicide. Philip Marcel, his dear friend, had been killed in cold blood over a decade ago. Manon was now a shadow of her former self, her ability to function as a sane person in the future in considerable doubt. And now his friendship with Robert was at an end. It was unclear whether he would see Yvette again, but even if he did, he would have to retract his statements and explain his lies. He reflected on the gun's inscription for what seemed like hours until he heard the footsteps of Adelaide. He swept it into his desk before she turned the corner, thankful for the gift of dreamless sleep that she would give him.


	7. Chapter 7

Robert McCall had dropped Yvette off on the airport, the blood pounding in his veins. From his demeanor, Yvette knew it hadn't gone well with Control, but she didn't want to push the issue with either McCall or her godfather until they had cooled off. "Give me a few days," McCall had given her a warm hug before she'd gotten on the airplane. "I just need a few more days to sort things out. I'll call you." Yvette didn't want to leave, but she knew that whatever had erupted between the two men, she did not want to be caught in the middle.

McCall returned home, lost in thought, and fell into an uneasy slumber. In the morning, he awoke to find Elena in a crumpled ball, wrought with sadness. Putting an arm around her, he had helped her to the couch, his own troubles forgotten for the moment. "Elena, what's happened?" he said, concerned for this woman who was completely beside herself. "My little Vadim," she gasped between sobs. "My little Vadim died last night."

"My god," Robert held her close, reminded of the night he had lost little Kathy of cardiomyopathy, a condition similar to little Vadim's problems. He knew he couldn't stop the flood of her grief, but he did his best to console her.

She turned to him, her face pleading. "Robert," she cried, "Yuriy is all I have left now. Please, oh please, don't let them take my other child too."

McCall was deeply moved by the tears of this mother, crying for her dead child, robbed of his last moments by the trafficking ring's actions in stealing her other child, and he was also moved by her dedication, her tenacity to find her other son.

"Elena," he took her hand, "we think we are very close. If you want to return to Ukraine for Vadim's funeral . . . ."

"No," she cut him off, "Only God can help Vadim now. Yuriy is still with the living, and he will need his mother. I will stay here, until you find him, and take him home - even," she choked back an anxious gulp, "even if I must take him home in a casket to lie beside his brother."

McCall took her by the shoulders, trying to soothe her distress. "I promise," he looked into her eyes with earnest, "you will take your son home, alive."

"Thank you," she said, allowing McCall's persuasive words to give her hope again. "Please," she wiped her eyes, "I-I just need some time, alone."

"All right," he reluctantly agreed, reminded of the depths of his own sorrow when his child had been taken from him, and the frustrating despair it had brought. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn't suffocate her as she grappled with her emotions; she needed some time to process Vadim's death alone. "I'll be back in a little while." She nodded, sadness in her eyes.

McCall grabbed his heavy coat for the cool March air and walked out onto the street outside his apartment. He walked past the Jag into a stiff breeze, preferring the bracing, open air. He needed time to think, to sort out these competing problems. Vadim was a reminder of the promise of a young life, snuffed out by the fickleness of the human body. But to have that grief compounded by Yuriy's situation - it was almost too much.

He felt dragged in two directions - his concern for his client and his own personal strife concerning Manon. Both problems were complicated, but he knew his mind wouldn't rest until it had been put at ease concerning Manon. He had the name and address of the Hunts Point facility in the Bronx. At least it was a starting place - Manon had recently been transferred from that institution, so they would be intimately familiar with her case, her needs, and her problems. They might even be able to shed some valuable light on the last 11 years and whether her condition since then had improved or worsened. The more information he was armed with before he encountered her at Kings Oaks, the better. Finally, settled on a course of action, he headed home to console Elena, contact Mickey, and then drive to Hunts Point.

* * *

Control awoke, his jaw aching. He noticed a folded note on a table near the penthouse's picture windows, left in the night by Adelaide. He opened it, although he already knew what it was. She had given him countless photocopies of the doctor's orders at least once a day, if not twice. They were her way of silently chastising him when she wasn't actually scolding him in person. He noted that the she had made an addition in this one at the end of the list of prohibited activities. In bold letters, underlined, circled, highlighted, and with several exclamation marks, it read simply: "No brawls!" He refolded the note. _Maybe she had a sense of humor after all_.

* * *

"What can I do for you, exactly?" The Ukrainian businessman greeted Kostmayer with an air of detachment. In contrast to Mickey's disheveled hair and blue jeans, the businessman was dressed in a William Fioravanti suit and Forzieri leather shoes. He wasn't impressed by the Mickey's appearance, but when Mickey let his jacket drift back, revealing his hidden SIG-Sauer P245 under his jacket, the man listened a little closer.

"My boss has a little beef with one of your competitors."

"Oh really?" He looked over Mickey's shoulder for his next appointment. "What's that got to do with us?"

"Nothing," Mickey disarmed him with his frankness, "unless you guys are into losing your Johns to some nickel and dime operation."

"Which competitors?"

"Guraya." Mickey could tell the man recognized the name, even if he wasn't saying much. "Look," Mickey leaned in close, conspiring with him, "let me be honest with you. These guys screwed my boss on a business venture in Europe, and he's out for blood - it's almost to the point of irrationality. I can't reason with him. He doesn't do this kind of business on his home turf - so you don't have to worry about him, but he's a multi-millionaire, and if you need some quick capital or you want to expand into other markets, you want to be on the right side of this guy. He's pissed that Guraya is moving into the States. Now, we heard you guys were the kingpins around here, and if anybody knew what a bunch of blood-sucking bags of shit they were, it would be you. You guys don't renege on a deal - you're men of your word, and these dirtballs are moving onto your turf. He just wants to thin the crowd of some of the less-desirable players. You can have the turf and whatever assets are left over after they are shut down."

Mickey had peaked the businessman's interest. "What do you want?"

Mickey shrugged, "Easy, just a referral and a meeting."

"We can't help you unless you close the whole thing. No loose ends."

"Sure," Mickey smiled, "and if you got any info you can give us that would be helpful, you might get a bonus."

"We don't want our name anywhere near this."

Mickey's smile turned into a broad grin. "Don't worry, they won't know what hit them. His operation is _very_ professional. He normally deals in dead bodies, not living ones, you know what I mean?"

The Ukrainian nodded. "He'll need to go in with cash."

"Sure, no problem."

"You got any special requests?"

"Yeah," Mickey gave them a broad description that would match Yuriy. "Something like that."

"O.K." the businessman took Mickey's number. "We'll call you with the place and time."

Kostmayer nodded. _Too easy,_ he thought.

* * *

McCall arrived at the Hunts Point institution. The outer door swung in to reveal a musty waiting room, last refurbished, it appeared, in the nineteen seventies. The linoleum was brittle, and the windows hardly let much light in. McCall had already noted that Dr. Healy had been Manon's primary physician, and he had called ahead to make an appointment with him.

A few minutes late, Healy met McCall in the waiting room and led him back to his office. "I understand you are from Kings Oaks. What can I do for you?"

McCall smiled. "Actually, I'm not with Kings Oaks, I am with an firm hired by them to audit performance and financials for third party reports."

"Oh, I see," Healy nodded.

"I'm looking into the patient you had here who was just transferred to Kings Oaks."

"Yeah, that was sure lucky."

McCall smiled, "What do you mean, 'lucky?'"

"Well, lucky for us, we got a bed opened up and lucky for her that that a private donor was funding some transfers of long-term state patients to private facilities. Hell, that place is nice enough to retire to," Healy grinned.

"What can you tell me about her stay here?"

"I'm sorry, patient information is confidential; there's really not much I can talk with you about with respect to her stay."

McCall had hoped this wouldn't be a dead end. "Yes, I realize that, Dr. Healy, but here is the difficulty. The private donor that sponsored her move to King's Oaks is an NGO with strict compliance guidelines, and we want to be sure we aren't running afoul of those guidelines. If other private donors have already offered to take the bill for this patient, then you see, that NGO would be in non-compliance."

"O.K.," Healy nodded, trying to follow. The language of performance and financial audits weren't his normal territory.

"First, we need to verify that she wasn't committed by a private individual or by her own request."

"Oh no," Healy shook his head, "She was committed by the State of New York. Involuntary. And no private individual had anything to do with it - it's was all state run and financed. She, uh, she wasn't a potential welfare leach, if that's what you are asking."

McCall took out the transfer papers. "Did she have any other visitors except him?" McCall tapped on Control's signature line.

Dr. Healy gave him a blank expression. "She didn't have any visitors, the whole time she was here. There was just the one right before she was transferred over to King's Oaks. That's it. We thought she'd never be identified. She was a Jane Doe."

McCall's looked at Healy, trying to discern what had happened. "So these records," McCall pointed to the visitor's log with his glasses, "are inaccurate?"

Dr. Healy flipped through them. "These aren't right," he murmured, a look of confusion on his face. "Come on," he waved McCall toward the office where he pulled Manon's official file. The official file was missing Control's request line and the log of visitations – all but the last one, just before she was transferred.

"You say that man only visited once, the other week, just before she was transferred?" McCall asked Healy, referring to Control.

"That's right," Healy stared at the logged visits page from McCall's file, a confused expression on his face.

_So Control had not had her committed, after all._ McCall snapped the paper out of his hands and called out a thank you over his shoulder.

"Hey wait," Dr. Healy called after him, but McCall was already gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Mickey Kostmayer was waiting in his van, trying to stay awake while he waited for McCall to arrive. Finally, he saw the Jag pull around a side street. From there, he saw McCall's signal. He headed around the back of the small building in Brooklyn.

The three-story building didn't look terribly interesting or even that out of the ordinary, but Robert McCall already knew what was inside. He adjusted his tie and his cuffs, glancing to be sure his silk pocket square was in place. He grabbed a briefcase and walked through the front door where he was greeted by a burly bouncer. The bouncer glanced him over, noting his silver hair. _This guy couldn't do much damage if he tried,_ the bouncer thought. The bouncer patted him down quickly, and he motioned McCall through to an inner office, where he was greeted by Josep and Anichka Mayko.

"Please," Anichka offered him a chair.

McCall sat down, the briefcase at his feet.

"We received your information and your request, and we think we have a pretty good fit." Josep leaned again his desk, crossing his legs.

"Excellent," McCall said. "$5000 for a 16-year old Ukrainian? We are agreed?"

"Sure are."

"When I can see the goods?"

"As soon as we see the money," Josep smiled.

McCall opened the briefcase, flashing the money, and slid it over to Josep.

"Great," Josep smiled. They were charging the stranger twice the usual rate, but he didn't seem to mind paying it. "Follow me," he lead McCall through the halls to a small door. "He's yours for three hours. And if you like this, we have all sorts of other deals we can make with you. We have a frequent visitor program, if you know what I mean."

McCall laughed, "Oh yes, I do." He took the key Josep offered. "Thank you."

"Um," Josep turned around. "If you have any problems, just yell."

"Oh," McCall raised his eyebrows. "You don't have cameras?"

"No," Josep shook his head. "For your privacy."

"Quite right," McCall dismissed him with a nod and unlocked the door to the small room in front of him. Inside he saw a malnourished young man squeezed into the corner, his back to the door. McCall closed the door, locking it behind him. Before he took another step into the room, he scanned it for bugs and video cameras. Seeing none, he crouched, making himself smaller. "Yuriy," he said in Russian, "I'm afraid I don't speak Ukrainian, but your mother told me that you speak Russian."

The boy, who hadn't moved until that moment, looked around, his olive eyes finding McCall. "My mother?" he murmured back, in Russian.

From the photos his mother had brought, the boy was certainly Yuriy. "Yes, Yuriy, your mother sent me to find you." McCall said in a gentle, calming voice. He hadn't used his Russian in years, but after practicing a few words with Elena, it had come back quickly. "We need to take off these shackles and get you out of here as soon as possible, before they come back," McCall looked intently at the boy. "I need you to do exactly as I say."

Yuriy nodded, watching as McCall withdrew a lock picking kit and dismantled a shackle that connected him to the small bed. Then, McCall withdrew a small revolver that the bouncer's light pat down had missed.

McCall glanced out the hallway, ushering Yuriy with him. He saw an exit, but he knew the bouncer was around the corner, monitoring the hallway. Waving Yuriy back, he ducked into the corner, showing the bodyguard his gun and forcing him to walk out the door and down the steps into the sunshine. As soon as the bouncer hit the first step, he turned, to try to wrest the gun away from McCall, but McCall simply stepped aside and with a swift toss, sent him tumbling down the stairs. Mickey caught him at the bottom of the stairs, spinning him around. Mickey then disarmed him and tied him near the back of the van, returning quickly. McCall took Yuriy over to the van, where a new set of clothes awaited. Yuriy paused, unsure of getting into the back of the van. "Would you rather sit up front?" McCall asked.

Yuriy nodded, not wanting to get into the back of a van. McCall popped open the passenger seat and gave him his cell phone. "Dial this number, Yuriy - your mother is awaiting your call. We will be back in a few minutes, will you be all right?"

Yuriy nodded, silently.

"Don't leave the van, Yuriy, O.K.?" Yuriy nodded his agreement, feeling confidence in his new acquaintances.

McCall closed the door and walked over to Mickey. "Is Alice on her way?"

"That's her knocking at the front door now," Mickey pointed to the Police Detective and a number of uniformed cops at the entrance with their guns drawn.

"Let's cover the back."

As Alice entered through the front, in response to Mickey's call, McCall and Kostmayer caught the patrons and Guraya ring employees that tried to escape out the back. In less than 15 minutes, Alice had made her way to the back door. "Thanks for the call," she said. "Next time you want to give us a little heads up?"

"Not really," McCall smiled, dropping a USB drive into her hands. "If I called you earlier, this wouldn't be admissible. The court might find that the evidence I just handed you was taken in cooperation with government agents, and therefore, you would need a warrant. Since I wasn't conspiring with you, you weren't here when I placed this bug in the briefcase of money I gave them, and I'm a private citizen, I guess this audio tape of Josep making a deal for underage prostitution and human trafficking is admissible in court."

Alice wagged the USB at him, "Very clever, McCall. You must have a good lawyer."

McCall inclined his head. "Alice - you know where to find me. I need to get this young man home to his mother." He and Mickey turned back to the van.

"That went well," Mickey commented.

"For once," McCall sighed. He looked over to Kostmayer. "Thank you, Mickey. I couldn't have done this one without you. My mind has been on other things."

"Don't sweat it, McCall."

* * *

McCall delivered Yuriy to Elena, who was waiting nervously at the apartment. When she saw him, she threw her arms around him, crying tears of joy. Only after several minutes of hugging her son and conversing with him in Ukranian did she turn back to McCall and Mickey. "Thank you so much," she couldn't help crying, "I can never repay you." She smiled at Mickey, "both of you."

Mickey grinned. McCall smiled. Turning to Mickey, he lowered his voice, "Would you mind doing me a favor, I've got an appointment downtown, shortly."

"Sure, McCall."

"Look after them for a little while. Alice is going to come over and interview Yuriy and Elena this evening so she can create her Police report. She is going to turn it over to the FBI to help ferret out any other members of the gang. That information you compiled from their competitors will come in handy as well. Alice will take him to the hospital, have him examined, and liason with Immigration to see if they would like a legal status, since he was a trafficking victim."

"Looks like Alice will have a few others on her hands, as well," Mickey gestured to the other trafficking victims that were slowly emerging and being ushered to waiting Police cars. He gestured to Yuriy and Elena, "Come on. You guys look like you could use a good meal. And then we've got a long night of paperwork ahead of us."

McCall smiled. _Well, there was that, at least. _Yuriy was safe; Elena could rest easy. McCall ducked into the Jag, pointing it toward Manhattan. He had asked Nigel to pass along an invitation for a late lunch with Control, but there was no telling whether he would actually show up.


	9. Chapter 9

McCall waited, wordlessly, in the Wild Blue restaurant in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. After their last exchange, it wasn't clear whether Control would show up at all. McCall gazed out over the tremendous view from the window, taking in Manhattan at lunchtime. At last, he noticed Control slide into the chair opposite him. "Hello, Robert," was all he said, waving the waiter over. The waiter took their orders, bringing them a carafe of white wine as they waited for their meals.

"I'm ready for that explanation," McCall said, his face neutral.

Control gazed at McCall to judge his ability to remain calm in the restaurant. At last, he said simply, "I don't know what happened to Manon," glancing at the tables nearby.

McCall did not take this as a good start. He felt the burning in his throat begin again.

Trying to cut off McCall's agitation, Control added, "I'm trying to figure it out myself, all right? That woman who looked like Manon, walked like Manon, talked like Manon appeared 11 years ago – we both thought it couldn't be Manon." Control gazed into his wine glass. "I've wondered many times, over the past 11 years, whether that woman who appeared with Arthur Trent was indeed Manon or not, and I've kept my eye out since we heard that maybe - just maybe - she hadn't died on that plane. You know from reading the Company's report that we never found a body. The plane was so utterly destroyed - there wasn't enough forensic evidence to decipher if there had been a bomb on it or not, let alone enough to identify bodies. The DGSE and our Paris station chief visited Mount Aiguille d'Argentière less than two weeks after the crash - and what I can tell you is that there was just a hole in the snow with some mangled metal around the edges. There was very little left. The coroner created the death certificates based solely on the passenger list. So it was technically possible but highly unlikely that she wasn't on that plane."

McCall took this all in, staring intently at Control. "I remember the report."

"Do you remember the other day when I told you Vitali had called me and I'd arranged a trade for some KGB files? Manon's KGB file was one of the files I asked for in the trade - I asked for it because I thought the Company owed it to her, to Philip, and to Yvette to find out if there was anything more to the story - if there was any other evidence of what happened. Mostly, I thought it might confirm the suspicion that the KGB had placed a bomb on the plane. I just received that file the other day, and the first thing I pulled from it was her KGB fingerprint file.

"Obviously if Manon ever turned up again, the FBI would alert the Company that it had a hit on her fingerprints. That's why she never turned up – because her prints had been altered by the KGB. All right, so I get the file," he pointed to an invisible folder on the table, "and any visual inspection would show that it is the same prints, but a computer doesn't know that. So I ran the new prints - the KGB prints - through the FBI. They immediately turned up a woman who had been committed to an institution in Hunts Point just days after we saw her. She had gone to a shelter after you helped her escape, and she was diagnosed with severe paranoia. When she tried to flee, the state had her committed as a danger to herself and society. She had been in that institution ever since."

Their food arrived, but both men left it untouched. Control continued, "I went to see her, to see how bad it was. I just saw her from an observation room – I didn't want to scare her. You remember what happened the last time she saw me." McCall remembered all too well – Manon had accused Control of conspiring to kill her.

Seeing McCall's nod, Control continued, "The doctor said that reminders of her past made her illness worse. When I got home, I contacted the office of Dr. John Bell, who worked previously for the French in the DGSE. He is without a doubt the best in the field. John is out doing research in West Africa, but I talked to some of his colleagues who have security clearances, and they said that until someone understands what happened to her and can help her systematically organize the jumble of events, her mind will continue to frustrate her. Her exasperation and depression stems from her inability to shape what happened to her in a logical way. Since she got back to the U.S., no one has believed her story. Reminders of the past spiral her further into depression and darkness – they force her to face the fact that she cannot lucidly organize her past. So she is cogent in the present, but when she tries to sort through her past, she has been told over and over again that she is irrational. In turn, that feeds depression, angst, and fear from whatever happened to her."

McCall's anger had peeled away, and now he listened intently, melancholy evident on his face.

"As soon as I could, I had her transferred out of that hellhole in Hunts Point to King's Oaks. It isn't on the Company books, although we both know the Company owes it to her, because I wanted her to have the time she needs to recuperate, and as soon as the Company knows about her, things will get complicated in a hurry. In the transfer, I had the administrative files altered so I could gain some leverage to access her medical files. Now that we've found her, and we know it is her, I can use that leverage to place her with a psychologist who has a security clearance and who will believe her. That's her only chance at a real recovery."

"You are still playing God, Control." McCall said quietly. "She can do that outside of a mental institution."

"No, she can't," Control said matter-of-factly. "There is still a warrant out for her arrest, and when she is released, she will be brought up on charges in the death of Philip Marcel. And, on top of that, she is still a security risk. Even if other people think she's mentally unfit, she still has a lot of information in her head, but fortunately, no one has believed a word she's said since she got back to the United States. And she has tried escaping several times - do you want to lose her just when we've found her again? There's no telling how deep and dark of a hole she will crawl into after all that she has been through."

"Fortunately no one has believed her?" McCall's hackles started rising again.

"You know what I mean," Control cut him off. "If anyone believed her, she'd probably have been lying in a gutter long before this."

"So you would let her live out her life at King's Oaks?" McCall's face was dangerous again.

"No, of course not." Control paused, "If we can find out what happened to her – piece together the events between Quebec and her return her to the United States - there's not a prosecutor on earth that would charge the victim of torture and psychological trauma as an accessory to murder. And the information that will clear her of his murder might also give her enough to re-organize past events in her mind – let her start healing from what happened. And then, she'll have to be thoroughly debriefed and her status will have to go through a Company review. But that's all beside the point if she can't start piecing together reality."

McCall stared at his wine glass, taking it all in. "And how would you propose we do that?"

"The KGB file is incomplete. It's been redacted in numerous places. It's a good start, but it won't be enough. I'll try to find a way around my current excommunication from the office to pull some of the other old files from storage that might help on this side. The KGB file does mentions Arthur Trent had a dnevnik - a diary. I think that if we can get the diary, we will have enough evidence to show any warrant for her arrest should be quashed. If the diary has enough details in it – and the KGB file certainly gives the indication that it will have that level of detail – her doctors will finally understand what happened to her, in the detail they need to assure her that she isn't insane and to start the healing process. Once she has some time to recuperate, if all goes well, and after the warrants are quashed, we can get her involuntary commitment lifted."

"Have you located the diary?" McCall could feel a burgeoning sliver of hope.

"I don't know its exact location, but I have contacted Vitali again. He won't trade money, this time. He needs something to trade to the Russian security services – who he thinks are beginning to suspect him. He wants a file in return – the file on Philip Lloyd, the station chief in London that you and Manon dug out before he was sent to prison."

McCall sipped his wine, finally relaxing, "Why would they want that file?"

"I don't know, but Russian memories are long. Anyway, the risk is to you and Manon. Mason Charles, the other agent on that assignment, died years ago."

"Make the trade," McCall instructed. "The risk is minimal, and there is no other option."

"Vitali can have the documents in London by Tuesday. I'll have a courier deliver them to New York before the end of the week."

"No," McCall face hardened again. "I will make the trade." The story sounded plausible enough, but all of Control's stories sounded plausible. The only evidence he had that Control was not involved was his word, and while he believed what Control had just told him, the diary would either confirm Control's version of events or reveal cracks in his story. More importantly, if the diary was the key to Manon's recovery, it was too precious to entrust to anyone else.

McCall waited for Control's answer.

"All right," Control reluctantly agreed, "you'll make the trade. There's one other thing," he pushed his plate away.

"What's that?" McCall listened, intently.

"I want you to know this before you read that file." Control waived the waiter over for the check. "It looks like Ben was involved."

An unreadable calm passed over McCall's face. "Ben? It can't be." McCall couldn't comprehend how one of his oldest friends could be implicated. "If you are lying about any of this," he started, stopping himself abruptly. To implicate Ben Silver was as unreasonable as implicating Control in Manon's disappearance, and the suggestion had caught him off guard; nevertheless, he immediately regretted his words. "I didn't mean-"

Control pulled out an Amex Black card. "Robert," he looked intently at McCall after he handed the card to the waiter, his patience wearing. "I've never set up one of my own agents, and I wouldn't lie about Ben, just because he is dead and it would conveniently cover my tracks. I know that you care deeply about Manon, but your emotions for her are clouding your judgment. I told you the other night that this is a sensitive situation. You've already alerted the Hunts Point institution that the transfer papers may have some abnormalities - and it is about all I can do to keep the Company and the state of New York at bay. I can't even promise that I _can_ keep them at bay much longer. Philip and Manon and Ben – they were my friends, too. I took this on because I owed it to Manon, and I didn't trust it to anyone else – not even you – because I knew that your emotions would distort your judgment. You've got to figure out who your friends are and who your enemies are before you get on that plane. And if you aren't sure, then let me send someone else to make the trade with Vitali. You aren't going to do anyone any favors - especially Manon - if you get yourself killed."

McCall stopped him with a hand, "Just tell me one thing, Control. Why didn't you tell me when you found her? Why would you keep that from me?"

Control looked at him for a moment before responding. "There were two reasons, Robert. The first – and most important – is that Manon isn't ready to see anyone from her past right now, not even you or Yvette. The best thing we can do for her – what we owe to her – is to find out what happened and let her choose, on her own time – when she is ready."

McCall felt a sting from the implication that the time was not ripe to see her, but he inwardly agreed that if what Control was telling him was true, she needed to be able to choose when to face her past on her own timeline. "And the second?"

"Your feelings for Manon run very deep. If I couldn't tell you in the right way, then I knew there was a high probability that something like the other night could happen. Yvette's discovery made telling you at the right time impossible."

McCall held up a hand, "I agree that Manon should be allowed to choose when to see those that care about her, but you are making that decision for her right now. If what you say is true, then lift the ban on visitors and let _her_ decide."

Control didn't look pleased with McCall's demand, but finally he acquiesced. "Fine." He glanced at his watch and out at the city skyline. "I've got to go."

"And," McCall stopped him, "you can't keep this from Yvette. She's a grown woman. She has every right to know what's happened to her mother." Seeing Control's reluctance, McCall added, "She will understand the ground rules. It will be Manon's decision to see any visitor."

"We only get one shot at doing this right, Robert," Control warned.

"That's right," McCall agreed, "and Manon will need all the support and reassurance she can get. She must know that she has a life to come back to and people that care for her."

"All right," Control agreed, grudgingly. He didn't savor the thought of admitting to his goddaughter that he had purposely lied to her, but McCall was clearly not going to give him the luxury of telling her at his convenience. He stood, leaving McCall still brooding over their conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

McCall met Dr. Olivia Parker at Le Bernardin for dinner. "I'm so sorry I'm late," he apologized, taking the empty chair opposite her. "It really has been a very hectic week."

She smiled gently, "That's all right. Fortunately for you, the menu is fixed, so I already ordered for both of us."

"Thank you," he murmured.

The food arrived shortly, and McCall broached the subject that had brought him to Le Bernardin at her request. He finally asked, "You said you had something important you wanted to discuss?"

She pushed aside her plate and squeezed his hands. "Yes, Robert, it is important. We really haven't had a chance to see each other since this whole situation unfolded."

"I know," he refilled her glass. "I really do apologize."

"It isn't that, Robert, I know I've been busy too, and I'm just as much at fault." She paused, "But when we have been able to spare a few moments here or there, you've been so distracted lately. I know, from what you've told me, that Manon meant so much to you. From the way you talk about her, from the very expression on your face when I say her name, I can tell that you were in love with her once."

McCall tried to interrupt her, but she continued.

"And," she said gently, "I'm not sure that you have resolved that time of your life yet. You might have moved on in your mind, but I'm not sure you ever moved on in your heart. Before I give my heart completely to someone, I want to know that he can give his heart completely, as well."

He gazed at Olivia. She was everything he had ever wanted: smart, intelligent, beautiful. She had grace and poise. She cared deeply about many of the same issues that he did. She was a strong and forceful advocate for human rights, a compassionate doctor, and a sensual lover. What more could he want in a woman, a companion? She was ideal in so many ways. But he had to admit to himself, sitting there, that what he wanted was not perfection, what he wanted was Manon, even as she existed, damaged and broken. He wanted to help her pick up the shattered pieces, to put them back together again. He wanted, most of all, to try. Fate had granted him a second chance, and he would be a fool if he turned his back on it. Yet here was Olivia, who had keenly sensed what had been happening to him, even before he knew it himself.

"I don't know," he said, truthfully. "I," he struggled for words, "I think you may be right. I loved her a long time ago, and I have a great many regrets about that time. I just - maybe I just need some time." Sadness filled his heart; he didn't want to say goodbye like this, but he could sense she was making it easy on him. She had known before he was aware of it himself, and she was gently letting him go. "You are a wonderful woman," he said, smiling sadly.

Olivia smiled, understanding in her eyes. "And you are a wonderful man, Robert McCall. We all have things in our past we need to face, and no one knows where it will lead. You've got my number, you know where to find me."

McCall felt a great weight on his chest departing, and he marveled at her grace and caring, the way she had recognized and acknowledged his need to find out if he and Manon were still meant for one another. "Thank you," he gazed at her as she rose, kissed him on the cheek, and departed into the March air. It still hurt, though, as he heard her footsteps departing.

* * *

McCall trudged into O'Phelans, his sadness over Olivia eating at his heart. He took a table in front of the fire, drowning his sorrows in a scotch. But before long, Pete - his partner in the restaurant and bar who had her name on the sign outside - had taken the chair opposite him. She noticed his sullen disposition and put a hand over his. "Robert," she tried to catch his attention, "what's wrong?"

He looked into his Scotch glass and shook his head, meeting her eye with a quiet smile.

"That raw, huh?" Pete called over the bartender, who poured them both a scotch and left the bottle.

McCall appreciated Pete's ability to console him while not pushing the issue.

"How's Control?" she asked, changing the subject.

McCall shook his head, "He's not exactly the model of transparency." Thinking of Control's glassy eyes, he added, "He's been a bit coy about why Medical has been sedating him into oblivion every day."

Pete gazed at McCall a moment, a odd look in her eye, "They've been sedating him?"

McCall shrugged, nodding, his mind still reeling from the conversation with Olivia.

Pete shook her head in frustration. "I knew it - I'd been meaning to ask him about it, if he dropped by. I tried to shelve J-49 before I left the Science and Technology directorate - exactly for that reason."

McCall looked up, "What?"

"The drug that Larry Masada stole from S&T and Tyler Simpson used on Control on New Year's Eve - we began research on it while I was still Director of the S&T section. It was tested under the name J-49. The testing phase was cut short because it was too unstable for use on live subjects, so we never got a good list of side effects. But one thing the testing division found immediately is that test subjects had a substantial rate of fatal seizures in the year after administration of the drug. The seizures were caused by an extremely high spike in cortisol levels in the blood. Cortisol causes a cascade of other effects, and we didn't have enough data to isolate the exact cause, but stress-related changes in the body did appear to affect the frequency of the seizures. J-49 stimulates extra production of cortisol and remnants of J-49 which remain in the blood for months after being administered interact with the cortisol spike and cascading effects to cause extremely severe seizures. They aren't mild or progressively worse seizures - it only ever took one to be fatal. And we had three happen to our test subjects, which is somewhat astronomical if you compare it to the amount of one-time fatal seizures that occur in the general population."

She continued, "The only countermeasures the research section could propose were trying to counteract a subject's natural cortisol levels through reduction of stress, tranquilizers, and other drug interventions. I tried to have it completely shelved, but I couldn't get the administration to sign off on it before Mike and I got married, and we were forced out of the Company. So it sat around on shelves, in low production units until Larry stole the dose they gave to Control."

McCall had a look of disbelief on his face. "They said they didn't know what the side effects were."

Pete tossed her hair back over shoulder, "The testing was never completed, so there weren't enough statistically important data points to say with certainty that anything _was_ a side effect. Everyone on the S&T team working on drug interactions knew about it - but that was a long time ago, now. If Medical is drugging him, I would bet that they are trying to artificially reduce his natural cortisol levels because he's probably spiking from increased J-49 interaction levels."

McCall thought back to Yvette's discovery of the chart noting Control's increased blood pressure. McCall squinted at Pete, "So, one cause is high stress levels?"

"Exactly. But this isn't like your normal, everyday 'take a jog and lower your blood pressure' kind of situation. The way this drug can interact with very high stress levels is fatal in about - well, we estimated 30 - 40% of situations."

McCall thought about the other night and his actions, turning Control's own gun on him. "My god," he closed his eyes. "I really do owe him an apology."

"What happened?"

McCall sighed, "It's complicated."

Pete nodded, "It always is. I'm so glad to be doing this now," she waved at the restaurant. "It's stressful but not like that job." She clasped his hand again, "Anyway, I'm sure you had a good reason for whatever you did. I'm sure he understands. And - Medical is looking after him for a reason - Doc may be a pain in the ass, but he's very good at what he does. Besides," she smiled, referring to Control again, "that man thrives on stress. I'm not sure he even knows what a vacation is. God forbid he ever decides to retire, what would he do with himself?"

McCall looked through the restaurant's windows to the street beyond, thinking of the OSO. "I'm sure he'll think of something."

"Yea," Pete laughed, "what I'm saying is - it won't involve little drinks with umbrellas in it - kind of like you, you can't stay away either. Speaking of which, how is business these days?"

McCall thought about Elena, Yuriy, and little Vadim. "It never seems to get easier. There's always someone else around the corner creating new atrocities to inflict on their fellow human beings: greed, torture, avarice, malice - when did these become human currency?"

Pete stood up, looking at the half-empty Scotch bottle. "Long before our time," she squeezed his shoulder warmly. "Man's plight has long been to 'tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.'" She smiled, "That's all the wisdom of the Greeks that I can offer you today, Robert. Anyway, just take it one Equalizer phone call at a time, right?"

"Yes," McCall stared into his glass, "one at a time."

* * *

The next day, McCall flew to London. He settled into his seat in first class, seated next to a petite young woman with large earphones and sunglasses, in a large oversize hoody, who was intently reading Elle Magazine as she jammed to her overly loud music.

"Excuse me," McCall touched her arm, "excuse me," he said a little louder.

The woman brushed her earphones off her ears, "Yea?"

McCall did a double-take, "Isra?"

She smiled. "Hi Robert, how's life been treating you?"

McCall rolled his eyes, frustration evident. "I do _not_ need a babysitter."

Isra threw back her hands in mock surrender, "I can promise you that I am not a babysitter."

"Then what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in Chiapas?" McCall's face was dark. He knew the only way another agent would be on his plane to London was if Control had placed her there.

"I'm still in language training for another few months," she paused. "You seem glum about the fact that I'm not in Mexico, playing with terrorists. I thought you'd be slightly happier to see me."

McCall's face was gloomy, but he said, "I am happy to see you," in a moody tone.

Isra couldn't help but smile at his demeanor, "Seriously, you are not in a good mood, Robert!"

"I'd be in a better mood if Control didn't send along escorts without telling me first."

"Whoa," she stopped him, "I am _also_ not an escort."

"Then what, exactly, are you doing?"

Her face turned serious. "I've got a parallel assignment. And, I'm _offering_ to be your backup."

"What assignment?" McCall said, his temper short.

Isra looked at him coyly, "As they say: don't ask, don't tell."

McCall looked out the window for a moment. _Isra Nasari, an agent who specialized in assassination, had been asked to go with him on a "parallel assignment" to meet Vitali._ He turned back to her, his face intense. "I thought there was a Russian journalist involved."

"Easy, Robert," she tried to calm him as the plane took off. "I know he was your contact, initially, but there hasn't been any green lights. I'm just on a reconnaissance mission. We can't do much until we find the journalist and retrieve the files. I'm tracking him from the exchange point to collect a little more data on him." She touched his arm affably, "Maybe nothing will come of this."

McCall looked at the petite Iranian-American. _How did she ever get involved in this dirty business?_ "A green light? Is that all it is to you - the ending of a human life?"

As the flight attendant came by, she ordered a mimosa for herself. "He'll take," she looked for the hardest thing on the in-flight menu, "a Cutty Sark. Maybe two." She turned back to him, "Vitali is no saint. You know that as much as I do."

"No, he's not." He looked at her - she had chosen this life. "But don't take for granted the way this business will deceive your moral compass," he warned, trying not to sound patriarchal. He looked down the plane's aisle, it's long distance reminded him of the many, many years he had spent snared in the Company's web. He had watched other agents erode into Company machines. Maybe even Rick Barry and Jason Masur had moral compasses at one point. Isra was young and independent, but the assassin's youthful exterior masked a darkness that the Company was exploiting for its own gain.

Isra looked at him, "I can observe the exchange from afar or I can be in place as backup. It's your call."

McCall stared at the seatback in front of him. _Isra was already going to London, it would be a shame not to use her._ "All right," McCall agreed, taking the Cutty Sark from the flight attendant, and he turned to Nasari. "Just make sure the files are exchanged without a problem."

"That's all I can do - I'll be tracking him or his point of contact as soon as the exchange is made. You won't see me again, unless there is a problem at or before the exchange point."

McCall had calmed himself, relaxing slightly. "All right." After awhile, he turned to her and added, "You know, it _is_ good to see you again."

She flashed him a winning smile, "It really is good to see you again, too, Robert. I've missed you." She disarmed him with her affection, and finally, they caught up on the last few months. By the time they exited the plane, he recalled why he held the young woman in such high esteem. Even if she hated throngs of people, she was entirely charming one-on-one.

As they walked down the ramp, she put on her sunglasses and headphones again, and she melted into the crowd behind Robert, unseen. He did notice that having an experienced agent at his back made him feel considerably more at ease.

* * *

That afternoon McCall took a taxi to Potters Fields Park, overlooking the Thames between City Hall and the Tower Bridge. He sat on a long concrete park bench at the appointed time, noting a skater nearby with the physique of Isra. He waited patiently, well past the appointed time, until a woman with a baby stroller took a break and rested next to him. A man was walking his dog was close by, and McCall noticed out of his peripheral vision that the man was drifting slowly behind him. The woman took out a small package from the carriage, bound in brown paper from the carriage and placed it between them.

McCall eyed the package wearily. He glanced around for the skater, who had also circled closer, close enough to have a keen eye on what was going on behind him but far enough to keep her face hidden. "Open it," he ordered the woman sitting next to him.

"The file, first."

McCall reached into his suit jacket and took out a thick envelope. Standing, he leaned over the baby carriage as if he was cooing to the invisible infant. He slipped the envelope into the carriage and noticed a gun peaking out from under the blankets in the carriage. He looked back at the woman. "Open it," he repeated.

The woman unwrapped the package. Inside was a photocopied version of the diary.

McCall glanced at other individuals around him, noticing that Isra was still skating a tight circle to keep an eye on the man at his back. "We said no copies." He flipped the brake of the carriage on with his toe and leaned against it.

The woman shrugged. "All right, let me get the original from the stroller."

She stood up, but McCall stopped her with a hand. "I think not." He reached past the gun and found the original diary buried in the stroller. "Allow me," he said as he withdrew the original. He glanced at it, noticing Trent's name inscribed on the first page. Satisfied, he tucked it under his coat and stepped away from the stroller. The woman immediately unlocked the stroller and continued on her way. McCall watched her carefully to make sure she didn't withdraw the gun on him. Finally, looking back, McCall noticed the skater and the man with the dog had also disappeared.

McCall strolled to the street and flagged down a taxi. He returned to the airport and booked a quick flight home.

* * *

McCall arrived back to New York, the diary safely tucked into a locked, hard body briefcase. McCall had read enough details on the plane back to be horrified, but now he had to start the tedious process of cohesively piecing the events together. He called Control and arranged a meeting at his penthouse. Control wasn't fond of doing this type of business there, but he didn't want to review the files at the Company, and the penthouse was cleared for Company file access. It was the only alternative to going into the Company offices.

When McCall arrived to Control's door, Control motioned him in from the rooftop deck. He was in a deep conversation with Nigel for several minutes before Nigel swept past, a leather-bound portfolio in his hands with the Company seal on the front. "Mr. McCall," he nodded a greeting as he strode by.

"What was that about?" McCall joined Control on the deck, overlooking Manhattan on a temperate March day.

Control looked at McCall, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, the Director needed some temporary appointments formalized."

"Concerning what?"

"It seems his choices for Northern and Southern Control haven't played well with others. I suspect their refusal to answer a few questions by Senator Mikulski and Senator Feinstein in the Intelligence Committee the other day about the unintended consequences of arbitrary shakeups may have sealed their fate. That and they've been turned over to Internal Affairs for some business deals made in the past week."

"Oh," McCall took a Perrier from the outdoor bar ledge. "Shocking." His tone was anything but shocked. He turned, "So - your appointments - anyone I know?"

"Well, I don't think you've run into the appointee for Southern Control but if you have questions about the Northern hemisphere, just direct them to Jacob Stock."

McCall smiled, "I wasn't sure about Stock at first, but he's proven that he does have a good head on his shoulders."

"It isn't permanent yet," Control looked over the city, lighting a cigar, "but I don't think he'll disappoint." He turned toward McCall, a concerned look on his face. "Did you find the boy?"

McCall nodded, "Yes, Detective Shepherd is contacting immigration about a possible visa for him and his mother to come to the United States, and she is looking into counseling and other assistance for the young man."

Control nodded, taking a long draw on his cigar.

McCall interrupted his smoky pontification, "By the way, I thought I told you that I didn't need anyone to hold my hand when I went to London."

Control let the smoke burn a moment before he exhaled. "What do you want me to say? She was on a separate mission, and she picked her seat on the plane." He didn't meet McCall's eyes.

McCall regarded him steadily, noting that the answer entirely dodged his concerns. However, Nasari had come in handy, after all, watching his back in the park. He decided it was best left alone. "Did you sign off on a warrant for Vitali's execution?"

"No," Control responded, rolling the cigar in his fingers, "but Vitali is an ex-KGB agent who is currently playing both sides to line his pocketbook. Anyway, Isra already sent in a preliminary report. Vitali is fairly innocuous at the moment, and we haven't identified the journalist, so I'd say he can sleep soundly for the time being."

The two men contemplated the city for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Control turned and gestured inside, "Manon's files are all on my desk." He had managed to gather several Company files that, by themselves, seemed harmless enough, but with the diary and the KGB file, would help to piece together the events of Manon's disappearance.

"What about you?" McCall asked.

"I'll be along in a little while, I've got a few loose ends to take care of."

"How is bed rest, anyway?" McCall narrowed his eyes.

"I've been upgraded," Control said, lightly, looking at his cigar. "To coerced vacation."

"I suppose you are already planning something?"

Control took another draw on the cigar, "Maybe. We'll discuss it when you are done with the files."

McCall finished the Perrier and returned to the study. He retrieved his reading glasses from his pocket, and slipped them on. Grabbing the the old files and the diary, he sank into the nearest leather chair, ready to unwind the events that had precipitated Manon's disappearance, not only for his own knowledge, but in the hope that it could help Manon's present situation. He opened the nearest file and began to read.

**End of Part I.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Part II**

* * *

_"Drop, drop_  
_in our sleep, upon the heart_  
_sorrow falls, memory's pain,_  
_and to us, though against our very will,_  
_even in our own despite,_  
_comes wisdom_  
_by the awful grace of God."  
- Aeschylus_

* * *

**1973, Leningrad**

Vladimir Retyunskikh was laughing; the Soviet Union had just crushed Sweden in the World Ice Hockey Championships, securing their place at the top of the podium yet again. He couldn't wait to talk to the guys about Boris Mikhailov's incredible game. He turned the door handle and swung the door in, his smile peeling away as he saw what lay beyond. He pulled his foot back, the tread sticking in blood.

Beyond the door were 14 KGB agents, each lying in a pool of blood. They had been brutally executed. "Oh fuck," Vladimir gasped, retching. He pulled the door closed again, wiping his mouth as he ran down the hallway the way he had come.

* * *

**The Next Day, Minsk**

The man who would later be appointed Northern and Southern Control leaned against a tree overlooking Minsk's waterfront. He was the ranking field agent currently located in Eastern Europe, and the KGB had called a very unusual meeting. The KGB and the Company kept careful tabs on each other, but they rarely interacted directly, undermining each other's efforts surreptitiously and leaving the direct negotiations to the diplomats. Control's steel gray eyes noticed a man striding toward him, and he trusted his backup was in place. This could go wrong very quickly.

Andrei Brish stopped inches from Control's face, snarling through clenched teeth. "I hope you know what the hell you are doing. Your side didn't need that information. If that file falls into the wrong hands . . . ." He stopped, a sneer curling his lip. "And I will take 14 of your lives to replace the ones you executed."

Control's mind was racing, trying to place any recent events in the context of what Andrei was saying. Nothing fit. "Andrei," he switched to Russian to try to calm the KGB agent down. "What are you talking about?"

Andrei searched Control's eyes for some recognition of what he was talking about. "Fourteen of my agents were executed yesterday morning in Leningrad." He didn't ask if Control knew anything about it - if he did, he wouldn't admit it. "A file was taken."

Control didn't move. He knew the KGB agent would also have others with their guns trained on them. He didn't want to make anyone with a finger near a trigger nervous. "What's in the file?"

Andrei searched Control's face again, to no avail. "It was a nuclear file. Everything was in it."

Control glanced at the surrounding waterfront. "What do you mean, everything?"

"I mean," Andrei tried to calm his nerves, "that there's only a few seats at the nuclear table right now. That file was the cookbook - it has all the technical expertise needed to add a few more seats to the table." The magnitude of what had just been stolen from the Soviets was unthinkable. It was enough to answer why the KGB had asked to meet with their mortal enemies. "And," Brish added, "there was a list of known third party suppliers, dealers."

Cautious of the unseen backup agents he knew Control would have planted nearby, Andrei slowly withdrew a photo from his breast pocket. It had been snapped at the murder scene. The fourteen men had been shot, and many of them had lived awhile after the initial shooting, it appeared. They had crawled around the room in their own blood after being shot in non-vital areas. They were then executed with head shots at close range. It appeared that two of them had been disemboweled alive before their final execution. While the two spy agencies dealt in deception, deceit, torture, and occasionally death, they were still gentleman's rules. One of them was that what they did was required for the sake of the country's interests. But these men hadn't been tortured for information - they had been tortured for fun. Brish and Control pondered the photo uncomfortably for a moment before Andrei added, "We know from the bullet casings that they were produced in the United States." He paused, reining in his anger and hatred. "We _need_ assurance that the file is secured."

Control stared hard at Brish before answering. He was certain that if any Company assets had been used for such a mission, he would know about it. "Look," he tried to diffuse Andrei's defensiveness, "I can assure you our side did not take it, and we didn't kill your agents."

Andrei stiffened at the mention of the agents. "Our comrades' deaths _will_ be avenged. When this news gets out to our network, I can't help what may happen. This was a brutal execution on our home soil over information you already have and certainly don't need."

Control ran a hand over his forehead, thinking quickly. This had all the makings of a major international incident if it wasn't cut off quickly. The US side would blame the USSR for potential nuclear proliferation, and the KGB's cadre of agents would go on the warpath over the brutal executions. There would be retaliation after retaliation, and the whole situation could escalate very quickly. There were many nations that would kill for the information the USSR had lost, but the US certainly didn't need to risk its assets for information it already had, nor would it kill KGB agents just to rile up the USSR. And although the KGB suspected the US of the assassinations, they apparently weren't sure - or they wouldn't be here talking. Most importantly, both countries needed to prevent nuclear proliferation. "What do you want from us?"

"Just secure the file and all its documents, and turn the assassin over to us. If you do, I can probably prevent the retaliation that I think will come from within our own ranks."

Control knew that this was the only way they could minimize the damage from the incident. He replied again in Russian, "There isn't much to go on."

Brish dug around his pocket for a moment, and Control waved off his backup from responding with gunfire. Finally, Brish pulled out a blood-smeared card. It was blank except for the drawing of a wolf. "We found this at the scene - a little calling card." He flipped it over and pointed out the publisher's mark - a Chicago company.

Control took the card, staring at it for a moment before handing it back. "We'll do what we can."

"You'd better," Brish warned, before stalking off.

* * *

After contacting the Company, Control had been authorized to locate the file. It was to be retrieved or destroyed, by whatever means necessary. He'd briefed the other agents working the regional office on the mission details. A day after the briefing, Robert McCall, had pulled him aside, a look of concern on his face. "I've been deep in the files all day," McCall had told him.

"Did you find something on the calling card?" Control asked, his face grim.

McCall nodded, "There is a mercenary that moved to the USSR a few years ago. He still has a US passport, and he was in Indiana less than 2 months ago. We've got a pretty thick file on him. He used to do some independent contractor work for us, but he was always a little unstable; and he hasn't been picked up for a job for us in years. He started to dabble in the darker side of executions and torture. He moved to Leningrad about five years ago, got married, and settled down. Now he has two kids - both boys. He's been doing some mind/brain research, and he has even been published in a few psychological journals, but he's still doing some covert jobs. Since he moved to the USSR, the Soviets have been using him almost exclusively, and they think they pretty much own him - that he's practically a KGB agent - but there's some evidence he still moonlights for other governments or private interests when the right offers come along."

"It sounds like a plausible profile."

"That's not all. He used to refer to himself as the Lone Wolf. It is marked on several pages on his file. He never handed out calling cards like this that we know of, but it certainly could be connected." McCall handed over the thick file.

Control flipped through it for a few minutes before responding, "I suppose he could have picked up a job for another country, but the Soviets should know all of this if he is in their backyard. Why wouldn't they have already checked him out already?"

McCall tapped the file, "It isn't clear the Soviets would have the information on the nickname. If he has settled down, maybe he isn't advertising his propensity not to be a loyal comrade. But that doesn't mean he isn't still taking advantage of extra cash where he can."

Control nodded, "All right, fly to Leningrad on the next flight and see what you can find on him. You'll be the primary on him, and I'll call Ben to set up round the clock surveillance on his house. He paused, "If you find anything definitive, you are cleared to turn it over immediately to the KGB." He gave McCall a note with the name and address of a Soviet contact Brish had given him. "Unless you or Ben find the file, handle this with a 10-foot pole. We don't want our assistance to be mistaken for involvement, and we don't need any cowboys charging in there playing hero."

McCall snorted, "I will bear it in mind." He fingered the note for a moment. "And if we find the file?"

"Retrieve it or destroy it. They wouldn't have been talking to us if there was anything other than what they said was in it. It's a minimal risk if its lost. It's a much bigger risk if it gets out."

McCall nodded his understanding.

Control closed the file and tucked it under his arm. The file was neatly labeled: Arthur Trent.


	12. Chapter 12

Ben Silver was a study in contradictions. He had a penchant for opera, and the sweet notes of Puccini's Tosca would often be heard coming from his quarters. He enjoyed the delicate flavor of a sweet muscato, and he had a keen eye for replicating early impressionist styles. He was particularly popular with other agents for his ability to smuggle the gentler pleasures of life into the tiniest hole in Eastern Europe, yet he also had a Hemmingway hardiness about him. He refused to use any gun but his .44 Magnum or a Winchester Model 12 shotgun. He took the greatest pride in bird hunting, and he would happily bring his game back in tow - usually pheasants with their heads and feet in tact but only strings in between where their body should have been, decimated by the caliber of his guns. He had also hiked a lifetime total of over 30 peaks over 14,000 feet, conquering a few more every year, whenever work allowed him the luxury of scouting a new one. He face was tan, and he enjoyed the fresh air. The idea of doing anything but field work was unthinkable.

Silver had been appointed as the station chief of Leningrad a year ago, his career on an upward trajectory. He had been working on a three-year project to cultivate a KGB contact named Jasoslava Dmietriev as a double agent. Day by day, he had slowly gained her trust, using all of his Company wile to build her confidence in him, and he knew it was paying off. Company officials had already told him they were impressed with the information she had been feeding him - much of it had been verified, and he had proven his ability to convert a key operative to their cause. He was, without a doubt, one of the rising stars in the Company's Eastern European section, and his considerable time and effort in turning Jasoslava was the career advancement he had long sought.

But in Jasoslava, he had found more than he bargained for. She could breathe life into Russian, a language he found awkward and guttural. She had taken him to the Bolshoi, and she could sing snippets from Rigoletto. She could even aim his Magnum better than he could, but her moods vacillated like fire and ice. One moment, she was cool, calm, sophisticated. The next moment, her fiery temper would flare. One night, she had smashed a bottle of his wine, used a butcher knife on his most recent painting, and swore at him, pouring her vodka out on his floor. Nevertheless, he found she challenged him in ways he thought impossible. Even after stormy evenings with her, he was still enamored, her fiery side appealing to his danger-seeking spirit. He had been spending more and more time with her, every evening. And slowly, she had been ensnaring his adventurous heart with her coy challenges, her charm, and her Russian beauty.

Four weeks ago, they had discovered Jasoslava was pregnant, and Ben had finally asked her to marry him on the condition that she defect to the United States. After a week of persuasion, she had finally agreed, although she was fearful for their growing child; certainly the KGB would not take a defection of one of its own agents lightly. Shrugging off the peril, Ben had been over the moon since she had accepted his proposal, but he knew that breaking it to the Company was going to be a delicate task. He hadn't yet broached the subject with his chain of command, and he was intent upon ignoring the issue until it was absolutely necessary. Although Ben thought he had kept their burgeoning romance under wraps, the agents around him had noticed the uptick in the hours that he was spending with his contact, often evenings, often alone. Unbeknownst to him, reports had made their way out of Leningrad to his superiors, dutifully passed on all the way back to the United States. The Company had already decided to terminate him, but it wanted to milk the information it could get out of Jasoslava before breaking the news to him and potentially cutting off her usefulness to the Company. The Company had, after all, invested a lot of time and resources into cultivating her.

Ben had received a call from Control, and he was somewhat nervous about why Control was calling so unexpectedly, but when he found out about Trent, it was a mild relief that it had nothing to do with him and Jasoslava. He reviewed the details about Trent and called his local agents, setting up a surveillance schedule. He was thankful, on this snow-filled night, that he was the station chief, and he could delegate the cold midnight surveillance watches to his junior officers. He also understood McCall would be joining him as the primary agent assigned to ferreting out whether Trent was indeed the man they were searching for, and he looked forward to seeing his good friend again. He and Robert had done their initial training assignments together, more than a decade before, and while they didn't see each other much, it was always nice to catch up.

* * *

Robert McCall arrived to Leningrad in the evening, and he eventually made it to Ben's house a few hours later, his tardiness due to heavy snow on the roads, but Ben was waiting up for him, a hot toddy in his hand. "Robert, you made it," he grinned warmly, pushing him toward a fire and ushering his suitcase into a comfortable guest room.

"By trials of fire and ice," McCall called after him, breathing in the scented whiskey as he added: "but mostly ice." Ben was always a consummate host, and he kept well-stocked quarters for a tired visiting agent. McCall settled into a deep chair, inhaling the smell of a wood fire with deep appreciation for shelter on this blizzarding night. Seeing Ben limp back into the warm room, McCall pointed to Ben's foot with his mug and asked, "What's this? Did something happen?"

"Oh yes," Ben settled into another armchair next to him. "I just got back from a vacation in Nepal. I went to hike one of its great peaks, Pumori, which is located near Everest. In fact, they call it 'Everest's daughter', and who wouldn't want to climb that, with such a name?" A broad grin swept across his face. "So I hired a pack of Sherpa and made my ascent - fairly quickly, I might add. We arrived at the base camp, and I thought _hell, these Sherpa are slowing me down_. So I took one man with me - the best of the lot, and we were going to make the summit in another day, but halfway through the day, the man was _still _holding me back from the pace I wanted to go. I told him he'd already cost me an arm and a leg, and I asked him: _what good are you_? He said I was supporting the local villagers by paying him and the other Sherpa. So, I told him I could pay him an arm and a leg to wait for me at the base camp, and he shrugged, probably thinking I was an idiot for venturing on alone. But, as the Sherpa say, let those American idiots do what they want."

McCall snorted at this - Ben was infamous for his stories, and one could hardly ever tell if they were entirely made up, partly exaggerated, or somewhat true.

Silver continued, "So, I headed on up that great mountain by myself, which I acknowledge wasn't the brightest idea I've ever had, but I made it. All the way to the top! So, I find myself at the very top of this beautiful mountain, on top of the world, and I'm practically freezing to death up there, and I can't possibly avoid capturing this moment for posterity. I had brought along this tyrannosaurus-sized camera, so I dug it out of my pack, and then I realize - I haven't got a Sherpa anywhere around to document my glorious ascent to the top of this mountain. And there's nothing at the top but snow, so I'm trying to figure out how to get a snapshot of me up there. I haven't even got a tree branch that I can wiggle the camera button with. And I'll be damned if I'm hiking back down to the base camp just to turn around and come back up again. So eventually - I suppose because I'm lacking oxygen at that point - I decide to take off my right shoe and by God, I'll use my toe to snap the photo of me on the mount.

"Well, as you can imagine, it doesn't go as well as planned, and frostbite almost immediately set in, and it takes my little toe with it. By the time I got my shoe back on, I'd already realized that it was about the dumbest stunt I'd ever pulled."

McCall swirled his hot toddy, a wry look on his face.

Ben continued, "So I get my shoe back on, the camera in my rucksack, and I head down the mountain. And do you know what I told that Sherpa when I limped back into camp?" Seeing McCall shake his head, Ben laughed, "I told him - my god man, now you've cost me an arm, a leg, and a toe!" Ben wiggled his stockinged right foot. "And then, on top of that, do you know what? I got that film developed and you can see part of an ear, a piece of mustache, an arm, and a hell of a lot of snow!"

McCall smiled, looking into the fire, "Well, at least you can check it off the list."

Silver leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "I did leave my mark, though, Robert. I made an X there on the snow, in yellow. Just to let it know what I thought of it and who was master of the mount." He broke into a hearty laugh.

McCall shook his head, smiling, thinking Ben was lucky not to lose _another_ appendage. "I'm glad you made it back, Ben. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"Well, here's to that," Ben toasted McCall.

After they caught up on old times, McCall broached the subject at hand. "Have you gathered any more information on Trent?"

Ben kicked his feet up. "Nope, I called around today, and I didn't unearth anything new beyond what you'd already found. I did get copies of the articles Trent has been publishing in some Russian journals, but they have some pretty technical language, so I sent them out for translation. I set up a detachment to monitor his house and follow him whenever he leaves. He's got a Russian wife and two young boys. So far, she has hardly left the house, and the boys haven't even been outside - probably due to the weather. Trent has been in and out a few times."

McCall asked quietly. "And your men here, they're good?"

Ben shrugged, "They are fresh off the boat, but this should give them some good experience. They'll do O.K., as long as they don't fall asleep in the middle of the night," he grinned.

"Any idea where he could have hid the files, if he's our man?"

Silver shook his head and brushed his hair back. "No, it's too soon for any of that."

"All right," McCall rose, stretching. "I better turn in - it is sure to be a long week."

Silver waved him a goodnight with his mug, returning to some light evening reading, and McCall wearily made his way down the hall, tumbling into the guest bed. He noted that the bed seemed more comfortable than any of the ones he been staying in for the past two years. "Just like Ben to drag a featherbed to his guestroom in Leningrad," he mumbled, as he fell into a heavy slumber.

* * *

The next morning, Ben's sleep was interrupted by incessant telephone ringing. The night surveillance agents reported that Trent had retrieved several large document boxes from a small boat docked at the waterfront. "Rather odd," McCall had thought, when he heard it from Ben. "But it matches the description of the cookbook."

"Yea," Ben snorted, "calling it the cookbook makes it sound like you can tuck it under your arm, but it was at least several boxes worth of files. This Trent must be one cool customer if he spent his time killing those agents and then leisurely hauling out multiple boxes of files to his car."

"Quite," McCall said, thoughtfully. "If he's taken them to his house, he must be fairly confident no one suspects him. And if they are at his home, we must keep a careful eye on them."

Silver agreed. "If that was the files, at least he won't be able to slip them back out past us."

"Ben," McCall said, "wasn't the site where the agents were killed on the waterfront?"

"Yes," Silver agreed. "It is possible he used the boat to retrieve the files, rather than a car on the street. It might have saved him from prying eyes."

McCall grabbed his coat, ready to head back into the chilly winter air, "Maybe there is something left on the boat that will be helpful. I'll head down to the waterfront and catch up with you later this afternoon."

* * *

Robert McCall scanned a little private wharf area, noting that a state security guard was loafing near the dock's entrance. Apparently, the USSR felt communal property was a good idea for everyone with the exception of high ranking Communist Party members or other elite comrades. McCall skirted around the dock's entrance to the far side where a high fence separated it from public grounds. He pulled a pair of fence clippers out of his pocket. After tugging himself through the clipped fence, he tucked himself behind a boat cover as the guard sauntered past. After several minutes of searching, McCall located the _Rex Imperator_, Trent's small yacht. McCall waited a few more minutes to confirm the guard wasn't anywhere near him, and then, after checking the boat's moorings, he jumped aboard. McCall disappeared into the dog house below the deck, pulling the dog house's door shut behind him.

McCall emerged into the boat's interior and quickly began to scan the surroundings. Quietly, carefully, he began to thoroughly search the yacht. After a half hour of searching, he had found nothing of use. He looked around the interior one more time, pulling open a small drawer in the captain's navigation desk. Inside, he noted a small card deck, and he rooted behind it, finding nothing. Flipping over the card desk over, he saw the drawing of a wolf. His eyes narrowed at the image. He popped out the card deck, and there the wolf was, on the back of every card in the deck. This was the evidence he needed to connect Trent to the murders, but as he was pondering the deck, he heard a clear footfall on the deck above him.


	13. Chapter 13

At the sound of the footfall, McCall stuffed one of the cards, an ace, in his pocket, depositing the rest back in the deck where he had found them and closed the drawer silently. He turned, looking for any place to secret himself, and he quickly made his way to the captain's bedroom, squeezing into a tiny closet. From the door crack, he could see a figure descending from the dog house into the boat's interior. Though he could see little through the small crack, as the figure came closer, he could make out the outline of a male. The man was whistling, contentedly, and he spent a few moments rummaging around the cabin.

"Upgrades are on their way, my little _Rex Imperator_," the figure said, in English. "A tidy little sum should be in my bank account soon," he continued.

McCall could see brown hair, and finally the crack revealed the rest of the individual he had seen in the file: it was Arthur Trent. But knowing what had been in the recent photos shared by the KGB, he knew that it was extremely dangerous to confront Trent alone. McCall assumed Trent couldn't have done such a large job alone, but whether they would be able to piece together the identity of any other conspirators without Trent's assistance remained to be seen.

Robert couldn't tell if Trent was armed, but it was likely that he was. In any event, McCall had orders to turn over the evidence to the KGB, and if he attempted to take Trent alone, it could quickly turn into a bloodbath on the little yacht. It was unlikely that if they both had time to fire that either would miss. McCall was certain that he could get a fatal shot in before Trent could pull his gun, but the little card in his pocket was flimsy evidence of Trent's guilt. Unless they could actually confirm the location of the files, killing anyone on USSR territory would be messy.

McCall had his gun at the ready, in case Trent walked toward the closet. Trent meandered toward the back, rearranging items in the ship. Trent paused dangerously close to the closet, and McCall could feel beads of sweat on his brow as he tried to breathe without emitting a sound. But Trent finally turned his back on the closet, whistling again. He rooted through the drawer McCall had found the card deck in, and Trent withdrew the cards, sticking them in his pocket before heading back up the steep wooden stairs to the dog house, departing from the boat and back through the dock area.

As McCall heard Trent's last step on the deck, he let out a nervous sigh, wiping the heavy sweat from his brow. He waited another twenty minutes before he unlatched the closet door, departing quickly and silently from the little yacht.

On his way out, he tracked the security guard's movements, and he slipped into the dock's office while the security guard was on an hourly patrol. McCall located the dock's logbooks, and he flipped the latest one open to the date that the murders had occurred. Seeing an entry noting Trent had taken his boat out all day on the day of the murders, McCall ripped it from the ledger and stuffed it in his pocket, silently departing before the security guard returned.

* * *

Ben entered the surveillance headquarters his men had set up a few days before to watch Trent's house. It was located kitty corner to Trent's house – close enough to provide adequate surveillance but discreet enough not to be too conspicuous.

"What's up boss?" one of his junior agents, Ludwig, asked.

"Nothing on my end, Ludwig," Ben slapped him on the back, "how is it going here?"

"I got the handover at 6 a.m.," Ludwig returned, pulling off his headphones. "During the night, the guys snuck in and set everything up for our little 'electrical fire' in case we can get inside, verify the files are there, but don't have enough time to get them out."

"Are the wife and children still inside?"

"Yep, Trent left pretty early this morning. Our guys followed him, but he shook them loose in traffic. He didn't see them, but that guy has a lead foot. They couldn't follow him without making it entirely obvious, and we didn't have enough guys ahead of him to pick him up again."

Ben smoothed his mustache. They would need more cars to follow Trent. Handing him off from car to car was necessary to make it look less obvious. "O.K.," he acknowledged. "I'll bring in a few more guys for the detail."

"Oh," Ludwig pulled out a message, "you got a call. She said it was urgent." Ludwig handed over the details.

Ben scanned the message, seeing Jasoslava's code name. He bit his lip, concerned. She was meant to see her doctor about the baby today. It was the only thing she could have been calling about. _If there was a problem with the baby . . . ._ Ben buried the concern he knew was beginning to show on his face, but he couldn't bury the concern in his mind. Trent probably wasn't coming home for hours, the wife and children were holed up inside the house as they had been for the past few days, and it was unlikely anything was going to happen. But if something was happening with his unborn child, Ben needed to be there. He grabbed his coat. "All right, Ludwig. I have to go meet my contact. Something has come up. Listen, the plan remains the same: if you get the opportunity – if the wife and children leave – have the guys do a quick search of the house for the files. Unless you have a clear idea where the wife and children are and how long they are gone, you probably won't have enough time to get all those boxes out and secured. So, get the files out if you can; use the fire if you can't."

"Trent has some pretty nosy neighbors," Ludwig agreed. "Trying to get boxes past them will be a challenge in the best of circumstances. Fortunately, the fire is ready to go, all it needs is a match."

"Good," Ben waved, as he headed out the door, thinking of Jasoslava and his unborn child.

* * *

McCall dusted the ace for prints, but he found none on the playing card he had stolen from Trent's boat. It was very flimsy evidence, but it was unlikely anyone else in Leningrad had the same deck of cards. The cards were published in Chicago over a decade before, and they were a limited edition. Although Trent had taken the rest of the cards from the boat, the fact that McCall had been able to secure one from the deck along with the comment that Trent had made in the boat and the dock log were clear circumstantial evidence that Trent had been involved in the murders. Now, McCall still needed to retrieve the files, but if Trent knew he was getting his paycheck for the job soon, he would also have to move the files again.

Mindful of the Company's instructions, McCall dutifully called the KGB contact from a public telephone and arranged a meeting to turn over the evidence, and he placed a second call to Ben to tell him that Trent might be getting ready to move the files on to the buyer soon.

"Ben's not here," Ludwig informed McCall. "He is out, but I've got the watch until he gets back."

McCall ground his teeth, annoyed that Ben wasn't there, but he knew the information was time sensitive, and it couldn't wait for Silver's return. He detailed his findings to Ludwig and informed him he was meeting with the KGB agent shortly.

"Do you need backup?" Ludwig asked McCall.

"No, there isn't time," McCall responded. "I've told him I won't show if he doesn't come alone, and I don't think even the KGB would try something in such a public place. I'll be fine."

"O.K.," Ludwig shrugged. He hung up and began to pace the floor of the small surveillance office. Ben still hadn't returned, and McCall's message had placed him on edge. There might not be much time to verify the existence of the files and secure them. He placed a call on his radio, instructing one of the surveillance agents to knock on the front door.

One of the surveillance agents took a few minutes to prepare himself, changing into a nondescript state uniform, taking on the role of a gas inspection agent. He knocked on the front door, informing the woman there had been reports of a gas leak in the area. As soon as she appeared at the door with the two boys, Ludwig sent in the other agent through the back door. The agent at the front engaged her in conversation for several minutes, trying to keep her occupied as long as possible, but before long, she appeared anxious, and he couldn't keep her attention any longer. He thanked her and headed on to the next house, disappearing around the corner and returning to the Ludwig's location.

A moment later the other agent emerged from a different direction. He filled in Ludwig on what he had found in the house. "The files are stacked neatly near the back office, adjacent to the back bedroom. I didn't have time to do anything but glance at them, but they are definitely the right files."

The other agent interrupted, "I told her there was a gas leak nearby and it was dangerous, but she wouldn't even entertain the idea of leaving. She was very suspicious. I don't' think we can use that ploy to get her out of the house."

Ludwig rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs. They just needed her to get out of the house for a few minutes. "O.K.," he said, trying to think of a new plan and hoping that Ben would return soon.

* * *

McCall met with the KGB contact on the other side of the city. The contact was wary of McCall, but he listened intently to McCall's story. He nodded when McCall mentioned Trent's comment on the boat, and he seemed impressed when McCall pulled out the log book page that showed Trent had taken the boat out to go sailing the morning of the murders and that it hadn't returned until late that evening. Finally, McCall mentioned Trent's nickname in the Company files, and he handed over the playing card he had stolen from the boat. The KGB agent's eyes widened with considerable interest at the sight of the card.

"Thank you for this information," the KGB contact took the card from him. "We will take this matter from here."

McCall realized this was his signal to leave, and he disappeared into the crowd, taking great care not to be followed.

Meanwhile, the KGB contact made his way back to his superiors, passing along all the information Robert McCall had gathered. Almost immediately, USSR security forces were dispatched to Trent's home to make an arrest.

* * *

Ludwig was reclining, his feet up on a short desk as he was listening alternatively to the other agents chatter over their radio and the USSR security forces scanner when he heard a call out to Trent's house. "Shit," his feet slammed down onto the floor. The security services were on their way, but the Company agents still hadn't had the opportunity to secure the files. He had been instructed to secure them or destroy them, and now there was little time for either. Ludwig knew that his career probably hinged on his next move, and he had only moments to decide what to do. There certainly wasn't time to find Ben, wherever he was. _What if there was something else, something important in the files? What if the security services were acting on other information? The files couldn't be secured by the American agents if the place was swarming with USSR security forces, regardless of whether they knew about the files or not_. Ludwig wasn't going to take a chance. The mission was to retrieve or destroy the files, regardless of collateral damage. The Russian security forces had been alerted to their presence, and they could arrive at any moment. There was really no alternative, he told himself. He radioed his colleagues.

"Lite it up," he instructed, urgently.

"Are you sure?" came the crackling reply. "The woman – those kids – they are still in there . . . ."

"Do it," he said, more firmly.

"Roger that," came the reluctant reply. A moment later, Ludwig watched as the house was engulfed in flames.


	14. Chapter 14

Robert McCall and Ben Silver arrived to the surveillance headquarters at almost the same time, Trent's house engulfed in flames nearby. McCall arrived first, and by the time Ben stepped through the door, McCall had almost thrown Ludwig through the window. Ben had to physically restrain McCall from thrashing Ludwig within an inch of his life. "You made the gas evacuation _optional_? My god, man, you could have pulled them out by force, if necessary," McCall spat through clenched teeth, pointing out what was so clearly obvious to the senior operatives.

As Ben pulled McCall and Ludwig apart, he pointed out their immediate predicament. "We've got to roll up the surveillance package immediately. If the Russian security forces find any of us, we'll be in prison for a long time."

Silver grabbed the radio and directed the other agents to safe houses nearby until the situation had cooled off. To Ludwig, he stuffed an open plane ticket into his hand and pointed him to the airport. "Get on the first flight out of the country and head to Bermuda. Now." Silver knew that operating as foreign agents in the USSR was dangerous enough, but now they had three civilian casualties on their hands as well. There would be a Soviet investigation, and the best thing they could do now was go to ground until the situation had cooled off.

* * *

Arthur Trent had been described by his associates as cold and calculating. Growing up, he was always at the top of his class. He was introspective, keen, even brilliant, but he also seemed devoid of the ability to empathize with others, owing in part to an icy and unemotional family life and in part to a curious but detached personality. Trent tried things, said things, did things as experiments, just to see what the reaction would be. As a boy he had done it with animals; as an adult, he had done it with people. But when he met his wife, she and their two small boys had kindled new emotions in him – sympathy, empathy, and love. She had been a psychologist, and she had helped him redirect much of his energy into more useful pursuits. Together, they had published articles in several scientific journals, leading innovation and experimentation in mind and brain research.

Until he had met his wife, Trent hadn't been entirely devoid of kindness, but his wife and children were undoubtedly the threads that kept him clinging to humanity. When those threads were severed, so terribly in the fire that destroyed his house, those last threads of humanity had snapped. Before that incident, he had guarded a quiet love for his small family. Now, what little love had been harbored in his soul was replaced with a cold fury, a dark and burning desire to hurt those that had severed the last shreds of love he had truly known.

He had thought, after all he had been through, that at least his wife's family would come to visit him, but because of the serious allegations against him, even they shunned Trent. From the crisp note they had sent him in prison, it seemed they might even blame him for the deaths of his wife and sons. His wife's relatives told him not to call, not to write. Now he had no one to turn to, nothing left, only the fury inside his mind.

Trent had seen the smoke and the flames before he even reached his house. When he arrived to the smoking remnants of his home, Soviet security forces had to forcibly hold him from rushing into the already doomed building. They had arrested him on the spot and turned him over to the KGB.

Now, as he sat in a KGB cell, his mind had crystalized a lens-like clarity on a new task: to fulfill a bottomless well of revenge. He wanted to cause the same agony that had been caused to his family – an extended sensation of pain. If he could free himself from his current bondage, he would find who was responsible for his arrest, his persecution at the hands of his former employers, and the agony of his family. In his questioning by the KGB, he had already heard one name connected with his arrest: Robert McCall. It was seared into his brain. The KGB had also peppered him with questions about the location of the files. Apparently, the KGB hadn't set the fire that had killed his family; the Americans had set it. The Americans had also turned over evidence against him. During his prolonged questioning, Trent had also seen a photo in his file of Control meeting with Brish. These two Americans – Robert McCall and Control - were responsible for his capture and the operation that had killed his family. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth. But first, he would need to survive the KGB. He had heard the KGB agents talking about the American agents with venom, and he knew he might be able to use their hatred of the Americans to get him out of his present predicament.

An agent named Piotra was in charge of questioning Trent, and Brish sometimes visited for updates on Trent's progress. Piotra entered Trent's cell once again. "Hello Arthur," came the heavily accented voice.

"Look, I told you," Trent glared back at the KGB agent, "I don't know anything about what you are asking me. What did the Americans give you as evidence? It couldn't have been much, since I didn't do it. They have always hated me since I moved here and married my wife. Can't you see they are trying to set me up? What did they say, exactly? How definitive was their proof? It can't have been very good since I didn't do it."

Piotra tossed the wolf card McCall had given Brish onto a table in front of Trent. "What do you know about this?"

Trent shrugged, looking genuinely confused. He knew his life depended on his acting ability in the next few minutes. "A wolf? How is this supposed to link me to the murder of a bunch of KGB agents?"

"Where did you take your boat two Sundays ago?"

Trent threw up his hands, "I take my boat out _every_ day." He gambled that the Soviets had already seen the log book. "You can check the log books, if you like. You'll see, every day I take it out. It helps me think." He knew the American must have gotten ahold of the card while it was still on the boat, and he knew he had already wiped the boat clean of anything that could link him to the murders. "Search the boat, I will take you to it myself."

Piotra contemplated this information in silence, letting Trent talk himself out.

Trent knew Piotra had some lingering doubts about the Americans, he just needed to carefully cultivate them. "I have been living here for years now. I refused to take any more jobs for the Americans years ago. I don't know what happened with this incident you are talking about, but it seems pretty convenient that they find me – of all people – to dump this on. A card?" He picked up the wolf. "I've planted better evidence than this. And you just take their word for it? Did you find a gun, any fingerprints, any actual evidence? Or are you just taking their word for it all - these guys who you know lie and kill anyone sympathetic to your cause? I moved to the Soviet Union years ago now, and you wonder why they might set me up as a fall guy? I thought you were smarter than these guys, but you are walking right into their trap."

Piotra frowned. It was true that the evidence given by Robert McCall was very limited. It was helpful – if true – but there was no guarantee that the Americans hadn't taken the file themselves, realized that it was simply outdated nuclear information and destroyed it themselves. Rather than taking the heat, they would need to pin it on someone, and they had found just enough evidence to convince the Soviets that it was Trent. Conveniently, the Americans had burned Trent's house, so there was no way to verify exactly what Trent had been doing either for the KGB or for the Americans, and the actions of the Americans had killed three Soviet citizens.

Regardless of Trent's loyalties, Piotra thought, if Trent had done independent jobs for the Americans, he would have useful information inside his brain, information that they wanted, even if it was stale. He would take this information to Brish for a decision on Trent's fate. Trent's execution date was just around the corner, and the Americans had been invited to witness his demise for their assistance in capturing him. But if what Trent said was true, the KGB might be shooting itself in the foot by executing him. And with the killing of his family, Trent could easily be manipulated into action against the Americans. He might just be a more valuable resource alive than dead.

* * *

Control flew into Leningrad to meet with Ben, a telegram tucked into his pocket. He didn't look forward to the meeting they were about to have. Pushing open Ben's door, he soon found a cat winding its way around his ankles and asked, "What's this?"

Ben appeared from around the corner, laughing heartily, "Her name is Milli. I knew we'd hit it off when she brought me not a mouse but a dead Northern Viper as a gift the other night. She only brings me gifts worthy of my attention. Last night it was a giant mole rat, almost her size. I fully expect her to turn up one night with half a hand."

Control eyed the feline beast, not quite knowing whether to trust Ben's story or not, given Ben's propensity to exaggerate. "I'll try not to get on her bad side." He glanced at his watch, "I'm afraid I can't stay Ben. I've got a date with the KGB at the prison in an hour."

Ben nodded, "An invitation to an execution from the KGB isn't that unusual – we just usually aren't sitting out in the audience." Silver had been doing cleanup on the Trent fiasco since it had happened, and there hadn't been an hour since the fire that it had been far from his thoughts.

Control inclined his head, "There hasn't been much that has been usual about this operation. Anyway, we did ask for some verification on what happens to Trent, so we can close out our files on those other jobs we suspect he had a hand in over the last few years. The invitation is a little thank you for the information McCall provided and our assistance in destroying the file."

"Just be sure you don't get on the wrong end of that firing squad," Ben motioned him toward a seat. "You don't think they'll try to pin that fire on us, do you?"

Control remained standing. "What fire?" he said, his face serious.

"Come on," Ben snorted, "they aren't stupid. They know exactly who set that fire."

"No, they aren't stupid, and neither are we. Officially, it is an unsolved arson, and they don't have any evidence on who started it. They know the file was destroyed, but we won't admit how, and they will overlook the fire because they don't have to admit anything, let alone why 14 KGB agents were sitting around playing cards with that particular file in an unsecured location. That information was rather nicely packaged and awaiting transport to a third party country when it was taken. Having to admit they were willing to trade that information to another country would undoubtedly kill off the arms treaty negotiations."

Ben rubbed his eyes, "Well, be careful, will you? Anyway, I don't think you came her to meet my cat, and you don't have the look of a man who wants to pop open a port and banter war stories back and forth tonight, and I know you didn't swing by just to say hello. What is it?"

Control fingered the telegram. "Speaking of setting the fire, what _did _happen?" he asked quietly.

Ben frowned, rubbing his chin. "Ludwig is new; you know that. He was under pressure; he thought he had the clearance, and he didn't see an alternative. I wish I'd have been there; it wouldn't have happened the way it went down. But what's done is done - and he did have the clearance for collateral damage. You authorized it."

"You should have been there, Ben." Control snapped back, his anger rising. "Where were you?"

Silver blinked at him. He didn't expect that Control was going to come down on him for this. The kid was green, and he'd shown a major error in judgment, but they had destroyed the files, and that's what counted. "It was an accident," he could see his friend's agitation rising. "It was just an accident." Ben would be damned if he was going to take the fall for a new agent's mistake.

"Where were you?" came the question, again, colder now.

"I was with my contact, all right!" Ben replied, his voice rising now. "It was important!" He saw Control take out a paper from his pocket which he was slowly crushing. "What's in that telegram, anyhow? Are you going to fire me over this?"

"No," Control said coldly, burying his emotions behind a tight mask. He tossed the telegram to Silver, trying again to contain his anger.

Ben looked at Control while unfolding the telegram. He skimmed it quickly. "What the hell?" he buried the telegram in a fist, "I'm being transferred to a desk job?" He stared incredulously at Control. "You've got to be kidding me. I've been one of the best agents out here - you can't take away my field status just because you're pissed over what Ludwig did."

Control's eyes were still smoldering over Ben's absence during the Trent mission. He had meant to break the news about Ben's transfer softly, until he had heard what happened with Trent. The fact that Silver had been with his lover while three civilians had been killed by the actions of one of his junior agents made Control's blood boil. At this moment, he didn't particularly care if the news struck a raw nerve or not. "We _know_ about Jasoslava. You and Jasoslava. _Everything_."

This news immediately extinguished Ben's anger, replacing it with reticence. He looked at Control with a wary look in his eyes, glancing at the telegram again.

After rumors of Jasoslava and Ben's relationship had been passed up the Company chain of command, Washington had sent a message directing Control to terminate Ben, and Control had, in fact, intervened on Ben's behalf. He had seen how Ben talked about Jasoslava, and he could tell the man was desperately in love, even if he hadn't yet admitted to their relationship. Control had received the same report confirming his assessment from other agents that worked with Silver. Ben's intentions clearly weren't traitorous, and his life with the Company was his whole world. He had excelled at being a field agent, and leaving the Company would have destroyed him. So Control had cajoled his superiors, pointing out Ben's expertise, training, and the time and money the Company had invested in him. He detailed the ways Ben could still be of use, noting that Ben was superb field agent with excellent local knowledge and the ability to get the other side to talk to him; his effectiveness could be bridled in another job. Finally, reluctantly, the Company had sent another message. They had downgraded their assessment of Ben's situation. He could stay on, but he would have to transfer back to Washington. It would be a desk job where he could do little harm. There were no alternatives. Jasoslava would still defect, but the Company wouldn't make any other decisions about Jasoslava until her debriefing, and Langley would make the final decision. Control signed Ben's transfer papers. His signature was on the transfer telegram Ben now held.

"Don't do this," Ben said, sullenness setting in as he looked over the transfer papers. He began to plead. "Please, don't do this. I'll take any field job - send me to Siberia, just not a desk job."

"This is the best offer you are going to get," Control said, coldly, turning on his heel.

"Can't we talk about this?" Ben called after him, clinging to a shred of hope.

"We're _done_ talking about this," Control snarled over his shoulder, leaving Ben to contemplate his retreating footsteps and the sound of the door slamming shut.

The only salve for Ben's wounds was that if the Company had agreed to transfer him and they already knew about Jasoslava, he would likely be able to get an asylum visa for her after her defection and debriefing by the Company, and their child would be born in the United States. If he was forced to choose between his advancing career and his romance, he would choose his new life with Jasoslava. As a double agent, she was currently in a great deal of danger, and helping her defect to the United States would quell many of his fears over her safety. But still, being transferred, especially at the hands of an old friend, stung bitterly.**  
**


	15. Chapter 15

The entire appointment at the prison lasted less than an hour, and within two hours, Control had departed on an outgoing flight from the airport to take a report back to his superiors.

A special KGB firing squad had been convened. The special nature of the firing squad was a way to avenge the deaths of their 14 agents. Under regular Soviet justice proceedings, the trial and execution would have taken much longer. The KGB had secret, abbreviated judicial proceedings that they applied to the Trent case. Finally, the KGB was also clearly executing Trent at the prison as an intimidation tactic on other prisoners before they met the same fate.

Control had been given an elevated viewing position from a room overlooking the prison's courtyard. Beside him stood Brish and a few other Soviet agents. Piotra. Petrovich. Runfelov. Radig. Control could feel his exposed back, and this was certainly not a place he wanted to loiter. He put his hands in his pockets and forced himself to look relaxed, unconcerned. He asked a few questions in Russian, appearing serious but amicable.

The viewing position was some distance from the firing squad, but between their position and the execution squad, most of the prison's other inmates were squeezed into the courtyard below them. Behind him, Control had noticed an 8mm video camera capturing the execution for posterity.

Although the distance was considerable, Control could tell the man being marched in was Arthur Trent. What he couldn't see was that Trent had noticed him as well. Control's visage made Trent's blood burn with vengeance, but it seemed he wouldn't get the chance now that his execution was at hand. Someone slipped a black bag over Trent's head.

Brish turned to Control. "Ready?"

Control nodded, and Brish signaled the firing squad. The loud report of 8 rifles cracked the air, and Trent fell to the ground. The execution squad immediately threw a sheet over the body and loaded it into a waiting cart, wheeling it out of sight.

"They are taking the body directly to the autopsy. If you want to wait a few hours, you can verify the body," Brish offered.

"No," Control shook his head, "I have a flight out before then."

_I thought not_, Brish thought to himself. Out loud, he added, "Then we'd better get you out of here before they start to move the prisoners back to their cells. That will take a while, and they will lock down the rest of the prison until it is finished."

After seeing Control to a waiting car, Brish returned to the prison's hospital ward where an unconscious Arthur Trent was just waking up. Brish noted Trent had soiled himself – apparently the execution rouse had worked just as it was meant to. Trent knew they were serious now, and he would savor his second chance at life. Certainly, any affability he had for the Americans had been extinguished with the appearance of Control at his execution. Brish smiled to himself. Trent would give them all his knowledge of his independent jobs for the Company, and his dabbles in mind and brain research could be very handy, indeed. They would have to be certain of his loyalty, of course, and there was no guarantee he could be rehabilitated to become a productive member of Soviet society, but there wasn't a reason to cut off the possibility of his usefulness at this early stage.

"Arthur," Brish said, nudging the body with his toe. Trent opened his eyes, gasping. He had thought he was really going to die, and although he could feel some bruising from the chemical bullets that had knocked him out, he didn't feel any gunshot wounds. "Arthur," Brish repeated, "we thought about what you said. We'd like to hear a bit more about what you think you can do for us."

* * *

A few days later, Jasoslava was late for her appointment with Brish in downtown Leningrad. She glanced at the little timepiece she wore around her neck and snapped it closed again. Sighing deeply, she swung his door open.

"Sit," came the immediate command.

She leaned forward on the edge of an office chair opposite his desk, crossing her long legs, one elbow on her knee, resting her chin on a manicured hand. She knew this meeting was going to be a delicate one.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Ben Silver," Andrei observed.

"That was the assignment, was it not?" Jasoslava held his gaze.

Brish rubbed his beard thoughtfully for a moment. "It was. Why have you been to see an obstetrician with him?"

Jasoslava let a faint smile play at the corners of her mouth. "Are you having me followed Andrei? Do you have questions about my loyalty?" She still didn't break her gaze with her superior. She and Brish had a brief romantic affair years before, but from those few months, she had learned how to manipulate the Soviet intelligence chief, and he knew it.

"We have spent three years on this assignment. We have fed the Americans sensitive information to cement your place with them."

"_I_ have spent three years of my life on this assignment, Andrei, - not us, not we, but _I._" Jasoslava returned. "If working as a double agent is walking a tight rope, being a triple agent is like balancing on a thread. I do not need your interference. This mission is a critical stage. They are arranging for my defection now."

Brish took this news solemnly. Jasoslava thought he would be slightly more ecstatic over the development, and she waited for his reply.

After a moment of uncomfortably shuffling papers, Brish looked up. "Are you in love with Ben Silver?"

Yes, Jasoslava was in love with Ben, but she would not admit it so directly to Brish, and certainly not like this. She did not pause in responding to Brish's question – she knew it would be taken as a sign of weakness. "I am in love with my country, with my duty, with my loyalty to my comrades." She could see Brish did not fully believe her. "There is something between the American and I that I have not found with another man, but that is separate, personal. Work is work." She paused, gazing into Brish's brown eyes. "You and I, we know that."

Brish snorted. He knew she was manipulating him, but this was a very dangerous business, and he wasn't going to risk an agent on an assignment if he believed the Americans could sway her to their side. "What assurance do I have?"

Jasoslava leaned forward a little more. Softly, she said, "I have taken a blood oath, comrade. Something even you have not done. The American," she didn't use Ben's name, knowing any show of emotion now could destroy her chances of going to the United States with Ben, "is going to be transferred to another assignment, another post, and I will be there. When the time is right, you can activate me. Until then, I will listen, I will learn, and I will prepare myself for that day."

Brish shook his head. This wasn't the way Jasoslava's assignment was meant to go, and she seemed a little too willing to go with the American.

Seeing Brish's reluctance, she added, "The exchange for these years of my life is this – you will leave the child out of it. Ben and I – we are foot soldiers in this struggle, but this child shall not be a pawn."

Brish regarded her with a cautious expression; this wasn't the Montagues and the Capulets. He would have some leverage, after all, it appeared. He held up one finger, "Then you will remember this conversation years from now when I call, Jasoslava. As long as you are a loyal comrade when that call comes, that is all that I care about. If you are not . . ." he let the words linger.

"I am and always have been loyal," she finished his sentence, cutting off his threat. "Look at my service records, my background, everything I have given you. Just leave me that one thing – my child – give me that promise."

Brish sighed. She had given him the assurance and – more importantly – the leverage he needed to let her go. "All right," he agreed. "But that call will come."

Jasoslava gathered her purse, "I know that it will."


	16. Chapter 16

**c. 1983 (10 years later)**

**Moscow**

Andrei Brish spread the plans on the table before him. His agents had just briefed him on a very ambitious mission to roll up a number of American operatives. It would coincide with two key defections from Western agents, and their knowledge would help target several Company operations in Europe.

Andrei Brish's beard had grayed in the last ten years, the stress of his job turning his hair silver prematurely. Although his junior agents were ardent on the new plan, he knew that the balance between the two powers was a delicate tango, and an operation this large could give them strategic dominance in the short term but its longer term effects were harder to predict. At least he knew his enemies, now. Instability in their ranks could cause more headaches than he needed.

He looked over the lists of American agents his comrades had suggested targeting. "This is too ambitious for success." He tossed the list back down on the table.

Piotra wasn't as cautious as Brish. "Andrei," he picked up the list, "we know we won't be able to roll up all of these guys. Even if we can only kill or capture one-half, one-third, one-quarter of the agents on here, it will still be a major victory. We expect things to go wrong."

Brish stood, stretching. "Have you even looked at the list, Piotra? Let's see," he grabbed the list from Piotra's hand, scanning it quickly. "Robert McCall is listed here next to some junior agents. You think you are going to be able to capture one of the most dangerous thorns in our side for years with the same plan you are using to capture or kill junior agents? This plan is half-thought out. Any operation that attempts to manhandle Robert McCall will be like trying to hold a wild tiger by the tail."

Piotra stood quietly. He knew Brish was conservative when it came to decisions like this. "Let us mark him for execution then."

Brish threw the list down again. "You want to kill Robert McCall? I would be only too happy to sign off on a mission that will kill Robert McCall – but you'd better do it right the first time, because if you don't, he will make us suffer for our incompetence for years. And then, what will we get for our trouble? He has been with the agency for almost 30 years, and he has friends in high places."

Piotra stared at the ceiling for a moment before responding. "Andrei, we know McCall is dangerous. As you suggest, we will mark him for immediate execution to minimize our risk. We will then use his execution to lure Northern Control to Europe where we will take him alive for questioning."

Brish looked up sharply. _This was interesting._ "You think you can take Northern Control alive?"

"We think it can be done, if we use McCall as bait."

Brish thought back to the prison 10 years before. If they had bagged Control at the prison, he would have had a lot less headaches over the past decade. But of course, the circumstances had not allowed that. Since then, he had graduated from being a senior field agent to Northern Control, based out of a New York office. Brish knew his capture and McCall's death would both be coups for the Soviet Union. "What else will you need?"

Piotra smiled to himself; he knew the inclusion of these two high-level agents would peak Brish's interest. "We need some assistance from inside the American agency. We will need Jasoslava. And you can appreciate why we will need to assign multiple senior agents to this portion of the operation."

Brish stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And tell me how, if you can capture Northern Control, will you get him to talk? Do you think he will roll over like a junior operative?"

Piotra smiled. "We have been developing several new techniques to extract information at the Vladivostok Labor Camp. They are impressive."

Brish flexed his jaw muscles, his nostrils flaring. "No, I won't authorize unverified techniques on assets taken during this mission. We know exactly how far we can push a person and keep them alive. I don't want to lose valuable information to some experiments because someone decides to push a little too far. Let them perfect the experiments on the prisoners first."

Piotra rolled his eyes, "Andrei, for all the assets that we capture, we can use the regular techniques, and if they don't work, we send the remains of whatever is left to Vladivostok for the experiments. Let us see what else can be pulled from them when we are finished. What is the harm?"

"I will think about it," Brish said, cutting him off. He swept the papers off his desk. "Make the arrangements for the operation. But the plans for McCall and Northern Control – I want to personally sign off on them. I will abort it if it is too risky. I don't want anything to backfire, and I will only activate Jasoslava for the right mission."

Piotra shuffled the plans together, stuffing them into a file folder and leaving Brish's office. Even if they only swept up the extended list of junior agents, it would be a resounding victory for their side, but he knew he had captured Brish's interest with the plans to kill and capture the senior operatives. The plan needed some tweaking, but he was sure it would be ready for Brish in a few days. He returned to his own office, preparing the plans for action.

* * *

**Northern Virginia (a few weeks later)**

Ben Silver tugged off his tie in the muggy air of Alexandria. He hated the District's summer weather – it was stifling, and he was dripping with sweat after navigating rush hour in a hot car. He arrived to his townhouse which overlooked the Potomac with a look of weary exhaustion. He checked the mail, seeing a note neatly printed in their son's handwriting. Two years before, they had sent him off to a military boarding school where he was excelling as a student. Ben wasn't sure whether the school made the bi-weekly letters mandatory, but they were useful updates when he and Jasoslava couldn't make the extended trip for the weekend to see him.

Ben pulled his son's letter from the envelope, reading it as he poured himself an evening Chianti and headed toward the backyard, where he usually found his wife in the garden after work. The garden was a quiet place of solitude with high brick walls that gave the entire area privacy from their neighbors. But as he stepped through the back door, the smile from seeing the letter faded from his face as he saw a familiar figure chatting with Jasoslava in the yard. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but Piotra hadn't changed much from the days when he had seen him from a distance in Eastern Europe. Ben turned to collect a gun when he felt a jab in his ribs and saw Petrovich behind him.

"We're just here for some friendly conversation," Petrovich growled. You won't need to bring any extra hardware to our little chat."

Ben put his hands up, being ushered into the garden. No one could see them there behind the high wall. Since the Silvers had retiring neighbors, it was unlikely anyone would hear them yell, either. At Petrovich's insistence, Ben joined Jasoslava and Piotra at the little bistro table on the patio.

"Look – a nice little reunion," Piotra smiled, his eyes cold. "We were just having a little chat about your wife's defection," Piotra gestured toward Jasoslava with his gun. "You didn't think we would stop looking for her after she so rudely turned away from her motherland, did you? No, we have been planning this day for a long, long time. We were just wondering whether her gravestone will be in Russian or English."

"Now wait just a goddamned minute," Ben interjected.

Piotra waved a hand dismissively. "Ben, you have played this game longer than I – you know that if it were your side, you would do the same thing. Just be happy you had this long to enjoy your time together."

"Wait," Jasoslava turned to Ben, fear in her eyes, before she turned back to Piotra. "What do you want?"

Piotra steepled his fingers. "You turned over classified information on our operations to the Americans for years. I suppose I would be happy with your scalp and a vile of your blood to take back to the Kremlin." Piotra's face was cold, ruthless.

"Wait, Piotra," Jasoslava pleaded, "I know that you are angry about my defection. But what good does my death do you now, other than vengeance? I have a son and a new life here. Maybe," she looked at Ben, "maybe we can offer you something in return, to just leave us alone."

Ben quietly listened, trying to plan an exit from the situation. Even if they got out of this incident, their life had just gotten very complicated.

"I'm listening," Piotra said, grimly.

"What about," Jasoslava paused, deliberately, "if we could trade an agent. An agent for an agent."

She saw the look on Ben's face. He didn't like it at all.

Piotra lounged back, considering the offer. "It is an interesting offer. I suppose we could let you go in exchange for the delivery of another agent. But," he warned them, "I will name the agent. It must be someone worthy of our time and effort. And I will name the terms."

"No," Ben got up to leave, but Petrovich slammed him back in his chair.

"I don't think you have a choice," Petrovich whispered to him.

Jasoslava leaned in toward Ben, "This is our only chance. You know they wouldn't have sent Piotra and Petrovich if they weren't serious."

Ben sat and considered the plan. He knew if he didn't take it, they would probably kill Jasoslava. If he agreed to the plan, he would have some time to figure out how to foil it.

"Who?" he finally asked, sullenly.

Piotra considered Ben for a moment. "Northern Control."

"No, absolutely not." Ben said, even firmer than the last time, his agitation rising.

Jasoslava pleaded with him, "Ben, it is the _only_ way. That man was responsible for your transfer to a job you hate. Why are you protecting him?"

"That was a long time ago," Ben replied. "I won't sell him out." He had to calm himself down. He knew how these games worked; he needed to buy some time.

"You _won't_ sell him out," Piotra cracked his knuckles. "All you have to do is initiate a cable. You will make it look like it is from the Bentley administration."

Ben glanced from Piotra to Petrovich and back again. "What cable?"

"It will be an immediate execution order for Robert McCall. We believe Northern Control will attempt to stop the execution by flying to Vienna. We will pick him up there."

Ben's couldn't fathom what he was hearing. The KGB was targeting two of his oldest friends, and they thought he would roll over and comply with their requests. As much as he loved his wife, his honor wasn't worth a lifetime of misery. But he had always been a very good field agent. He knew he could unwind these plans, but he needed a little time to figure out how to do it. Ben was shaking on the interior, but on the exterior, he reluctantly considered the plan. Trying to protect Northern Control would be difficult enough; trying to protect both him and McCall might prove impossible. "Only one. One agent for Jasoslava. No more."

"It _is_ only one agent," Piotra returned. "The execution order for Robert McCall will be on your end only. The cable will never make it to Europe. It will only be used to lure Northern Control to Vienna." This was a lie, but a necessary one to get Silver to act. KGB agents in Europe would ensure that the executioner in Vienna would receive delivery of the cable Ben would insert into the Company system, as well. Without a rescind order, the cable would set in motion McCall's targeting for execution, and he would be killed in Europe, without any KGB fingerprints near the murder.

Ben's mind was racing. If he dropped the telegram at the right time, when Control was preoccupied with other matters and he couldn't leave New York, he would surely send a junior courier agent to rescind the execution order. Once the KGB's plan was thwarted, they would likely abandon the plan altogether. "All right," he agreed, "but dropping an untraceable secret communique into the cable pool isn't easy. I'll need a window of several days to be able to do it."

"Done," Piotra smiled. "And, you know the rules. We will be watching you. You have been bugged, and we will know if you destroy any of the bugs. Do not attempt to notify the Company, Northern Control, McCall, or anyone else, or we will come back and kill Jasoslava and you. And I can promise you, we will gather her whole family and send them to a labor camp. Personally, I don't think they will last more than a year." Piotra and Petrovich stood to leave. As Ben stared solemnly at the ground, Piotra gave Jasoslava the hint of a smile. She had done well, indeed.

He and Petrovich departed, leaving the Silvers to their thoughts.

* * *

**Washington, DC**

Ben Silver looked at the secret cable with the marker on McCall's life on his computer screen. The KGB had contacted him again, giving him only a few days to deliver the communique. His desk job wasn't good for much except for doing paperwork, such as bantering these cables back and forth over Company policy, and after 10 years as a desk officer, he knew how to change the date and sender on the official cable log. Now, the cable appeared to come from the Bentley administration, and it was backdated two days to make it appear all the more urgent.

After checking Control's schedule, Ben was dropping it on one of Control's busiest weeks. Silver was certain Control would not be able to get away from the office for more than 24 hours, so he would be unable to fly to Vienna. Still, it was risky, and his stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.

Thinking of his wife, he finally hit enter on the keyboard from his office in Washington, DC, a lump in his throat and an ulcer in his stomach. After hitting print, he took a copy off the printer and rang Control's office, bringing the urgent cable to his attention.

* * *

**Vienna, Austria**

Thousands of miles away, KGB agents received a copy of the cable, and they were on their way to surreptitiously deliver it to the executioner. The wheels had been set in motion, Robert McCall was to be executed by an American, as soon as he could be found.

* * *

**New York**

After Ben's telephone call, Control had his office in New York locate the cable in the system and bring him a copy. He had silently stared at the words ordering McCall's execution for 20 minutes before even moving. The Bentley administration had never liked Robert McCall, but this was going too far. He rubbed his temples, trying to think. All of his East Coast agents were tied up, and he could hardly get away himself. He would have to deal with the Bentley administration some other way, and openly going against their instructions would create a number of immediate problems. This was too important to entrust to a junior agent, and if he couldn't get away himself, he needed someone he could unreservedly trust to hand carry a rescind order to McCall's executioner in Vienna.

He had been speaking with one of his oldest friends earlier in the week, Philip Marcel. Philip had married Manon after McCall and Manon's relationship had ended, so many years before. Philip had mentioned in passing that Manon was flying back to France for her annual pilgrimage to visit her family in Paris. She was leaving the day after tomorrow. In 24 hours, Control knew that she would be only a short flight from Vienna. If there was anyone in the world he could trust Robert McCall's life with, it would be Manon Brevard. Making up his mind, Control dialed his secretary, his words tense and clipped, "I'm taking a short vacation to visit some old friends. Get me on an afternoon flight to Quebec," he ordered. The secretary protested, looking at his dense schedule. "Have my chief of staff clear it until tomorrow morning," he said abruptly. "I'll fly back first thing."

_Vacation?_ The secretary thought. _He never takes a vacation. And an 'overnight vacation' – this was surely going to start some rumors._

In his office, Control fingered the telegram, a grim look on his face. There was no way to get a message directly to McCall – he was buried too deeply undercover at the moment. McCall sometimes rubbed people like sandpaper, and Control had known something like this could happen, but the fact that it was actually happening, and coming from their own side, was a stab in the back. He knew the independent contractor who had been commissioned for the execution, and anything short of an in-person order or a hand note from him would not stop the execution. If he couldn't stop it, he would never forgive himself, and Manon was his only hope.


	17. Chapter 17

**Quebec**

Late that evening, Control arrived to a large Nouvelle France mansion outside of Quebec City. He had tried to reach the house before he had arrived, but he had been unable to reach anyone before his flight had departed. He hoped that Manon hadn't left yet. To his relief, he saw a light in the house's window. He paid the taxi a hefty fare and left his only bag on the veranda, ringing the doorbell with a heaviness in his step.

Manon, herself, opened the door, her face lighting up at his presence. Using his real name, a name he felt he hadn't heard in an eternity, she invited him inside. "You'll be so disappointed," she gave him a warm hug, "Philip is gallivanting on another assignment, so he won't be home until late, and Yvette is out with her friends. I don't think she'll be home until tomorrow. Will you be able to stay long?"

"No," he said, wearily, "just the night."

"Yvette will be so sad that she missed you." She smiled, "You look like you could use a sundowner. I just found my favorite vintage of a lovely South African wine while I was in town today. Let me open it – it is a Spears Shiraz, and it is quite good. It reminds me of that night we drank until sunrise, watching the sun come up over the Seine. You remember it – you and Susan and Robert and I outside that little café?"

"I remember," Control sighed, thinking back.

"I think it is gone now – the café, I mean. I guess I'll have to check when I'm in Paris this week," she said, over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two wine glasses. She curled up next to him, reading his body language and his brooding demeanor. It was rare that she could read the heaviness of the position he held, but tonight, she could read the sadness in his eyes, and she could see his shoulders bearing the weight of whatever news he had brought. Reading his mannerisms after knowing him for so many years, she pulled back. "What is it?" She gasped, "Has something happened to Robert?"

Control shook his head. "No." Manon saw whatever was bothering him disappear under the mantle he wore as Control. He added, "Robert is fine."

Manon sighed, deeply relieved. "Then what can it be? You rarely take us up on our invitations to visit, and something is concerning you."

"I need a favor," he finally met her eyes. "A personal favor."

"Of course," she put a reassuring hand on his arm. "Whatever I can do."

"When you fly to France tomorrow, I need you to take a flight to Vienna and hand deliver an envelope."

Manon withdrew her hand, searching his eyes. "I'm out of the Agency now. You don't need me to courier a message. I couldn't even – I wouldn't even know where to start anymore. Surely, there are better people than me . . . ."

"Not this message." He thought of the cable. "An order has come down from the highest levels to execute Robert."

Manon inhaled sharply, clutching at his suit jacket arm. "No," she pleaded, twisting the suit jacket's threads.

Control turned to her, "I can't get away myself. I need someone I can trust to hand deliver the rescind order."

"Of course," she didn't even consider the question for another millisecond, "of course I will go."

"I don't know why the order was issued. This could be dangerous, Manon." He gazed at her, meaningfully. "Very dangerous."

Manon saw the concern in his eyes, and she knew what it had taken for him to come and ask this of her. Nevertheless, here they were, and if Robert's life was at issue, she wouldn't hesitate. "I will go," she said simply, taking the message and the plane ticket from him. "The instructions are all here?"

He nodded, pointing toward the package with the ticket, the message in a sealed envelope, and a map.

"Then I will ask a favor from you," she motioned for him to follow her. "I was packing when you arrived, let me make sure I put this in a secure place." He followed her up the stairs into the hallways outside her bedroom where she tucked the package into her luggage. She disappeared into her bedroom closet and emerged with a photo wrapped in lace. It was a photo of her and Yvette just after Yvette was born. "If anything happens . . . ."

Control interrupted her, "Manon, nothing will happen . . . ."

"_If_ anything does," she cut him off, giving him the photo, "I always meant for Robert to have this photo. It was her first baby photo."

"You would want me to tell him?" Control asked, gently. She had made him promise years ago, when he had found out that she was pregnant, not to tell McCall about Yvette. She had always wanted McCall to return to her out of love, not obligation. Now, so much time had passed. Philip had stepped in where McCall had faltered, and Manon didn't want to needlessly hurt him.

"Only if Robert finds out about Yvette on his own. You know how sensitive Philip is about the subject – and he has raised Yvette as his own. "

Control tucked the lace-wrapped photo into his suit jacket.

She hugged him tightly, as an old friend of 30 years, her emotions overwhelming her. He was the only person who understood her history with Robert. It was a part of her life she didn't feel comfortable sharing with Philip, for Philip knew some part of her was still in love with McCall. And Control had known everything that had happened during her life with the Agency. She had cried on his shoulder when she had found out she was pregnant and McCall was already gone, when she finally realized Robert was never going to return to her, when several of her Agency contacts had been executed in Milan, and now, with the weight of what could happen to McCall and the memory of those years from so long ago.

Control let her cry, soundlessly. He could feel her tears embedding themselves in his shirt. She had always been so warm, but she had always hid her tears from the world. Those emotions were hers, alone. It was how he would remember her, years later: standing there, weeping quietly over years lost and memories unmade. It was another reason he had been convinced the woman who had appeared so many years later was not Manon – she cried so easily, so openly. It was so unlike the Manon he had known for so long.

He let her wear herself out with her tears and ushered her toward her bed, returning downstairs with his empty glass just as Philip returned from a very late night.

"No one told me you were coming," he threw his coat over the nearest chair with a grin. "I hope Manon was here to greet you?"

Control nodded, "I just put her to bed," he inclined his head toward the wine bottle, "I think the Shiraz did her in."

Philip slapped him on the back. "You'll have time to see her off to the airport tomorrow?"

"No," Control glanced at his watch, "I actually have a flight out myself in a few hours. I was just stopping by on my way through, I'm afraid."

Philip huffed, "Again? One of these days, you'll have to make an actual effort. I trust you have time for a cigar on the terrace?"

Control took the proffered cigar with a smile, following his old friend outside. "Of course, I have time for that."

* * *

**Washington, DC**

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Petrovich slammed his fist down. "It was Ben Silver, I know it. He must have alerted Control not to go himself. I'll kill him, I'll kill Silver."

"Just wait," Piotra stopped Petrovich. "You're right about Silver - I don't think he is playing along like a good boy, but he didn't tell Control on the phone." He glowered at Petrovich for a moment longer, lost in thought. "Why would Control fly to Quebec to see the Marcels? Pull those files on McCall again." Scanning through them briefly, he saw Manon's name pop up. "There's some rumors they had a romantic liaison in here, but they broke it off years ago."

"So maybe if Control doesn't want to go himself, he's using her."

"Yea," Piotra looked wistfully into the distance. "If Silver got a message through to him, he's using her as a sacrificial lamb; if he doesn't know, maybe he doesn't trust anyone within the Company to stop the execution."

"Well, this just screws our plan to hell," Petrovich was irate.

"No," Piotra wagged a finger, "I mean, it does but not completely. I'm going to call Brish. I think he'll be pleased if we can still bag another agent in the place of Northern Control."

Petrovich wasn't as happy about the change in plans. "We don't have any evidence that she has been involved in Company missions for years. She's out – what's her usefulness to us?"

"If we are very lucky and we take her, maybe Control will still come. And anyway, old agents are always useful, Petrovich," Piotra snickered. "I'm surprised you haven't learned that by now. Brevard and McCall uncovered some of our agents that Brish originally recruited. Brish won't be unhappy if we capture her. He'll be disappointed if we can't get Control, but I think she might be a good salve for the time we've spent on this mission. Apparently Control trusts her, and maybe she has more of a connection to McCall than we thought. And, she had knowledge of several missions within the Soviet Union that we would like to know more about. Anyway, like we told Brish, we expected things to go wrong – but maybe something just went right. Let's check the flight records out of Quebec." In less than an hour, they had Brish's authorization and Manon's flight records which revealed that she would be departing for the airport that evening on a redeye flight to Paris.

* * *

Jasoslava met Piotra at his request at Arlington National Cemetery near William Howard Taft's gravesite.

"We've had a little glitch," he told her. "Has Ben said anything to you about trying to undermine the operation?"

"No," Jasoslava brushed her hair back in the light breeze.

"Hm." Piotra looked at her sharply. "Well, we will need another message from him, and this time, we don't want anything going wrong.

"What kind of message?"

"A simple telephone call," Piotra replied.

"I have several recordings of him. I thought it might be good to have a backup in case he wasn't willing to go along with the plan," Jasoslava informed him. "We can splice together whatever message you need."

Piotra's face brightened, "Good. Very good."

* * *

******Quebec**

In the morning, Philip took Manon to a small restaurant on Rue de Petit Champlain for a farewell brunch before she departed for Paris. Petrovich watched them leave their home through his binoculars. As soon as they were well on their way, Petrovich disabled their security system and picked the lock to their house's door. He assumed that Control would have given Manon a physical rescind order, so he searched her luggage first, finding the package hidden under her clothes. Opening it, he copied down her flight details from Paris to Vienna. He noticed the sealed envelope, and he took a small device out of his pocket. Within a few minutes, he had used it to steam the envelope open. He read the message inside with a stiff grunt.

Petrovich was excellent at reproducing handwriting, and he used his imitation skill now. Though he was pressed for time, he took several minutes to study the handwriting in the original message. Then, he drew out a new piece of paper from his pocket and used a backlight to trace the original handwriting whenever he could use the same words from the original message. He stood back, looking at the new note he had just created. It was a very good likeness of Control's handwriting.

He put the new note back in the envelope, resealing it just as it had been before. Then he quickly rearranged the package and the luggage as he had found it, exiting the way he had come. As he departed, he enabled the security system again, leaving everything as he had found it.

Minutes later, he called Piotra to signal the next phase of the operation.

* * *

Just as the Marcels were about to leave for the airport, Philip heard the phone ring. He answered it and walked through the house looking for Manon. When he found her, he motioned toward the phone. "It's for you. I'll put your bags in the car." He departed with the luggage, and Manon found the dangling phone.

"Allo?" she greeted the line.

"Manon, it's Ben."

"Oh, Ben," she switched to English, but he cut her off.

"I can't talk long. Just listen. Robert McCall is in danger. Control ordered his execution. Be careful of delivering anything Control gave you." The phone clicked off.

Manon stared at the phone, her face one of confusion. Ben hadn't sounded quite himself, but it was certainly his voice. She gaped at the phone still lying in her hand.

"Darling," Philip came in behind her, seeing her expression. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she shook off the conversation, smiling for Philip. "No, no, just Ben Silver calling to wish me a good trip."

Philip nodded, directing her toward the door. "We've got to go or you will miss your flight."

She nodded, heading to the car and glancing over her shoulder at the phone one last time.

Two hours later, her mind was still reeling over the phone call. She was seated in first class with no other passengers seated near her, and her back was to the curtains that divided First Class from the rest of the plane. Checking around her first, she pulled out the package Control had given her. She fingered the envelope, noting the seal. She ordered a hot tea and used it to steam the envelope open, noting that the seal seemed weak. She pulled out the message in Control's distinctive handwriting.

"Oh my god," she stared at the words. There had to be some mistake. She shook her head in disbelief. It was an order for McCall's execution, not a rescind order. It didn't make any sense.

She thought back to the previous night. She had practically bared her soul to Control, and now it appeared that he had just been using her. The idea cut into her bitterly. His melancholy, masked so quickly, had seemed genuine, but now she wondered what it had really been for. Her Company instincts took over. It was possible someone was manipulating him, and this note seemed so out character from one of her oldest friends. And that message from Ben – it had been so abrupt – as if he was under duress. As she thought about the events of the last day, she found she was left with more and more questions.

She stared at the note again. But there were the facts – Control had given it to her last night, and it was in his handwriting. Even if the Company had disintegrated the last shred of Control's humanity and replaced it with blind ambition, Control had still put her in a position to ensure that Robert wasn't killed. She would need to continue on to Vienna and find McCall to warn him. She could worry about everything else later.

But if the KGB could see how it had disintegrated a 30 year friendship with a few written words, it would have been very pleased, indeed.


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's Note: This chapter was originally published on 7/15/14. The fact that Korean airliner 007 (a historical flight that was accidentally shot down by the USSR in 1983) was mentioned in this story two days before MH 17 was shot down (7/17/14) over Ukraine was an unfortunate coincidence. The reference to the Korean airliner 007 was written before the current MH 17 incident, and it was in no way meant to capitalize on the current news of MH 17. My condolences to all the families involved in the current Malaysia Airliner MH 17 incident._

**Paris**

Manon arrived to a small bed and breakfast in Paris where she would rest until her evening flight to Vienna. She hadn't been able to sleep at all on the redeye flight, her thoughts troubled and worried. Now, exhaustion set in, and as she finally drifted off to sleep, she was awoken by the shrill ring of a telephone call.

In perfect French, the voice on the other side of the line informed her that she, like McCall, had been targeted for assassination.

"Who is this?" she demanded, sitting upright on the hotel bed.

"A friend of Ben Silver's."

Manon Brevard had been a field agent years before, and she was well aware of the stakes involved in making the wrong move after receiving a call from a stranger. She had been swayed by the handwritten note from Control, but she still had questions in her mind, and she wouldn't be led into a trap so easily. "How will it be done?" she asked.

"Control has instructed two agents to place a bomb on the flight you are taking tonight to Vienna. They will be dressed in Pan Am uniforms. You will see them enter the plane's cargo hold at precisely 7:03 p.m. to place the bomb. Feel free to verify it yourself."

"What possible reason would Control have to target me and Robert?" Manon probed suspiciously.

She heard an amused grunt. "Let's just say that the Bentley administration has a few loose ends to clean up. You and McCall are two of the loose ends. Control is following orders, like any good Company stooge. How do you think he got his promotion, anyhow?" The voice on the other end paused, letting her think this over. "It's your choice if you think you can take on the entire Company by yourself. Otherwise, check in for your flight as usual. Unless your name is on the verified passenger list, the Company will know you are still alive. We will send someone to retrieve you off the tarmac and take you to a safe house."

"What about Robert?"

The voice waited a moment. "Didn't Ben tell you? You have the only execution order. Without it, McCall is in no danger." Manon considered this, but her thoughts were interrupted by the voice again. "If you are separated from your contact, the safe house is located at 13 Rue Madeline. It closes at midnight."

Manon tried to ask, "Who . . ?" but the line went dead, and eventually she hung up the phone. If what the stranger said was true, she had been isolated and burned by the Company, and there would be a Company-wide marker on her life. She wouldn't be able to trust any of her old contacts.

She made her way to the airport. She checked in as the contact had suggested, in case the two operatives did not show up and she wanted to risk the flight and continue on to Vienna. But sure enough, just as the voice had told her, two Pan Am technicians appeared on the tarmac next to her small plane with a bag at precisely 7:03 p.m. She could tell, when they exited the plane 8 minutes later, their small bag was considerably lighter than when they had entered it.

As the plane was boarding, she felt a hand on her arm, and it pulled her from stepping onto the small stairs into the plane. "Come on," a man next to her said, leading her to a food delivery cart on the other side of the small plane. He and another agent drove her out of the airport, switching vehicles near the exit. As they departed in the new car back toward Paris, the car's phone rang. Picking it up, the driver responded in Russian, noting that they were on their way.

"You're KGB?" Manon said, confusion in her eyes.

The man turned back toward her, "Da."

She bit her lip, realizing she might have just made an enormous error.

Piotra received Manon and the agents accompanying her at the safe house, preparing her onward transportation. She had been prevented from warning Robert McCall about the execution order in Vienna, and she would be sent for a debriefing in Moscow. Piotra flipped on the evening news on the television for her, letting her see the French reports showing her plane was now missing near the Alps. "You see," he said, "we have just saved your life."

* * *

**New York**

Control was listening intently to a classified briefing on Korean Airlines flight 007, a flight that had just been shot down by the Soviets en route from New York to Seoul. All 269 passengers had been killed, including a US Congressional Representative, when the plane had flown through prohibited Soviet airspace.

A junior agent found him, handing him a note. He read it quickly, distracted by the briefing. It mentioned a missing plane, and he motioned impatiently to the briefing going on around him. His tone was annoyed, "I'm _in_ the briefing."

"No," the agent shook his head, "a different plane."

Control seized the note from the junior agent again, this time catching the words "Pan American." The note crumpled in his hand as he tried to rein in his thoughts. He could no longer pay attention to the presentation, and he exited the briefing room, waving the Army intelligence officer conducting it to continue on in his absence. Once outside the briefing room, he spun toward the junior agent. "What's going on?"

"That flight - that one you wanted updates on - it's missing in France."

Control's face blanked, "How overdue is it?"

The agent looked slightly intimidated to be delivering such bad news to the Black Ops chief. "The control tower lost contact with its locator signal three hours ago."

"Get me the plane's manifest, and update me as soon as anything new comes in," Control snapped. He returned to the briefing, his attention no longer on the Korean airliner. Now, he had two problems beyond this briefing room, rather than one. If Manon was missing, there was no telling what had just happened to her flight. He was responsible for sending her on that plane, and if it had crashed, he could already feel a mantle of guilt descending upon him. Her disappearance left Robert McCall susceptible to the cable commanding McCall's execution; there was no telling how long McCall still had before the contract on his life was fulfilled. Control contemplated all of his options during the Korean flight briefing, and by the time the meeting was over, he had settled on his next course of action.

* * *

**Moscow**

After being moved to Moscow, Manon was taken to a KGB holding area where she once again saw Piotra. "Manon," he smiled. "We both know how this goes. You have information we want, and we will get it. It can be long and drawn out, or you can just tell us what we will find out in the long run, anyway. It's really your choice." He tapped the table thoughtfully. "But I'm sure you know, the smartest agents realize that there is no need for them to suffer since we will drag it out of them one way or another. If you work with us instead of against us, I will personally arrange for some very nice accommodations on the Black Sea where you can rest and relax while we negotiate the next steps."

Manon gazed silently at the Soviet intelligence agent. She needed to bide her time carefully. If there was an opportunity, she could escape. She could potentially get a note back to Philip; there were still a number of alternatives. Her last alternative would be _Midnight Transposition - s_he would kill herself, but that wasn't necessary - not yet. She knew she could hold out against the Soviet's techniques, but she did not know for how long.

"Go to hell," she told him, quietly.

* * *

**New York**

"Oh man," the young operative running the Austrian desk said under his breath, nervously wiping sweat from his brow. The Black Ops chief was looming over him impatiently.

"O.K., so let me get this straight . . . " the operative stuttered, when his boss leaned down menacingly.

"Am I not being clear?" Control growled. "Contact Vienna and have this operative rolled up immediately." He pointed, again, to a name he'd scribbled down.

"But sir," the operative protested, "that's one of our own guys. You want him killed?"

Control hovered over the desk, his frustration evident. "No, of course not. Just detain him for questioning. Confirm with Vienna their understanding that no lethal force is authorized." He rubbed his tired face. He hadn't gotten any sleep in days. "He's dangerous, and he won't be in any mood to be picked up, so make sure they are wearing vests and they approach him gently, all right?" Control was going to have to come up with some sort of explanation on why he was using the Vienna assets to bring in the executioner, but he would worry about explanations later. Although challenging the Bentley administration openly could get him blacklisted in a hurry, there really was no alternative now, and every minute that ticked away was another minute closer to Robert McCall's imminent death.

The agent started back at his computer screen. "O.K. I'll see what we can do in 48 hours."

Control's voice rose with irritation. "You're not hearing me. You have four hours to roll him up, or you will be on mail duty for the rest of your career with this agency. Do you understand?"

"But everyone's asleep," the agent protested until he saw the expression on Control's face. The agent immediately grabbed the nearest secure phone. "Four hours, right."

Control stalked back to his office where he tried not to pace, awaiting word on Manon's plane. He couldn't smoke in the office, or he would have had a pack of cigarettes to calm his nerves. Under other circumstances, he was very, very good at waiting, but not these circumstances. He could feel his patience ebbing as away as the minutes ticked past, each one marking waning hope for both Manon and McCall. If the Vienna agents could roll up McCall's executioner, Robert's cover in Austria would not be blown. The Company had been after Oskar Bräuer for twenty years, and McCall was within a breath's distance from capturing the butcher. If they tried to pull him out, Oskar wouldn't hesitate to use brutal and deadly force. It was a very dangerous situation all around. If the Vienna station could detain the executioner for a few days, there would be enough time to sort out the execution order with another courier. Manon, on the other hand . . . there might be little he could do for her.

* * *

**Moscow**

Piotra didn't take Manon's reply well. He leaned forward, his smile draining away. He leaned into her ear, so that only she could hear him. "We _will_ kill you. And your husband, Philip. And your daughter - what is her name again? Oh yes, young Yvette. The one who likes pretty mink coats and art nouveau."

Manon's eyes widened as he pulled away from her, the smile returning to his face.

"Throw her in the box," he motioned to the guards.

Manon was dragged down the hallway as her inner turmoil continued to churn from being captured by the KGB. The guards forcibly clapped her into a very small closet. The tiny space was constructed in such a way that she could not sit down or comfortably stand. It was so small that she was forced against the door into a contorted, hunched position. The door slammed closed, and she was left in total darkness, alone with her thoughts. Those first few hours with the KGB were terrifying. She had no idea why they had snatched her, whether they were also targeting her family, or why the Company would abandon her. She knew, from her training, that this was exactly what the box was intended to do, but she couldn't help the terror that was filling her mind. The minutes stretched into hours, the hours into what seemed like an eternity. The pain of her contorted position became almost unbearable until, at last, she passed out.

* * *

**New York**

"They got him," the junior agent had a look of relief on his face as he swung into Control's office, jubilantly.

Control immediately arranged for another courier to take a new message to the executioner Vienna to cancel the commission, and he reached for the secure phone to discuss the situation with the Vienna station chief. "Wait until the courier arrives, then release him," Control commanded. "If the courier doesn't arrive within 24 hours, call me directly."

"Got it," the Vienna station chief confirmed.

On hanging up the phone, he allowed himself to breath a sigh of relief. One problem had been averted.

* * *

**Aiguille d'Argentière**

A day later, search and rescue workers found the plane's wreckage on Mount Aiguille d'Argentière. The little plane's loss was overshadowed by the news of the Korean air flight, so it was nothing more than a blip in the evening news. Pan Am notified the families of everyone listed on the manifest, including Philip Marcel. There wasn't much left to identify.

* * *

**Quebec**

Philip hung up the phone, his breathing hurried and shallow. _This couldn't be. _Just the other morning, Manon had told Philip at brunch that she had to take a quick flight to Vienna. She had an old friend from _terminale_ that she wanted to visit. It was to have been an overnight stop - that was all. _If only she hadn't taken that last minute flight_, he thought.

The last time they had talked, Manon had hung up by saying "Je t'aime," as she always did. Now, it seemed that he would never hear her utter that phrase - or any other - again. His jaw began to shake with emotion. He felt like he was drowning in his own grief, but he knew he had to prepare himself to tell his daughter that her mother was dead. It was a terrible burden, worse than any other he had bore. Hearing Yvette's footsteps on the terrace, he braced himself, trying to look calm and collected, for her sake.

* * *

**New York**

Control's secretary rang through to him. "Ben Silver for you."

"I'll take it," Control waited for the call transfer.

"No, he's here, in the office." The secretary ushered Ben through Control's door. Ben shut it firmly behind him for privacy. He had traveled all the way to New York in case he was still being bugged. He needed to have one private conversation with Control.

Control looked at him with a grave expression. Ben's didn't usually drop in unexpectedly from Washington without a good reason.

Ben did not offer a greeting before launching into the conversation he had been rehearsing in his mind the entire trip down. "I heard about Manon's plane. Did you – did you send her? Did you send her for Robert?"

Control didn't move, offering nothing.

Silver took Control's silence as validation that he did, indeed, send her to stop McCall's execution. "My god," he whispered, his face paling as his worst suspicions were confirmed. "Why? Why would you send her?"

At last Control responded, "Who would you have me send, Ben? She was the only one I could trust."

Silver slumped down into the chair, the realization of what had happened hitting him. Knowing the role he had played, he was despondent that his actions had resulted in Manon's death. He had firmly believed that Control would use a regular courier – it had never occurred to him that Manon would go. Silver ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "What will you tell McCall?"

"She died in a tragic airplane crash. That's all – nothing else. You won't tell him about the execution order. You know how he is. He'll blame himself, although he had nothing to do with it."

Silver nodded even though his mind was racing. "And Philip Marcel?"

"It was a tragic airplane crash," Control repeated.

Ben wrung his hands nervously. It would destroy Philip to know that one of his oldest friends had sent his wife to her death on a mission to save Robert McCall. It must remain under wraps; there was no alternative.

"What about the Company?" Ben asked.

"There will be a secret report," Control pointed to some paperwork on his desk. "It will say she was couriering a message; that is all."

"You're sure the crash was just an accident?" Ben knew that it couldn't have been an accident.

Control looked at Ben strangely, his eyes narrowing, "Is there something I should know?"

Ben blinked, thinking quickly, "You've seen the same reports I have over the past week. There's been a lot of KGB activity. They tried to take two agents in Hungary – and there's rumors they are trying to roll up some others. Then they shoot down this Korean airliner. What if – what if they targeted her?"

The idea had occurred to Control, as well, but it seemed unlikely - nevertheless, nothing about the past few days seemed likely. "I've called our Paris station and the DGSE – she was their agent initially, and they are keeping an eye out for anything unusual. I can't do much - I've got to brief Secretary Schulz on the Korean crash. Since the Korean flight originated in New York, I've got my hands tied for several days."

Ben rubbed his face with a weary hand. Manon had known Control at the Sorbonne before either of them had entered their respective intelligence careers. Years later, Manon had been loaned to the Company by the DGSE, the French intelligence agency, before being poached by the Company. When she and McCall had split up, she remained with the Company for a short while before rekindling an old flame with Philip Marcel, also an acquaintance from her years at the Sorbonne and one of Control's oldest friends. Marcel was Canadian, and she had left her career to move to Quebec with him and start a quieter life; although since he was a Québécois Police Inspector, it was never as quiet as she had hoped.

Silver looked at the ceiling in Control's office; there was little else he could do without revealing his role in the situation. He considered telling Control for a fleeting moment, but his shame and guilt kept him from doing it. From his perspective, the situation had resolved itself; there was nothing that could be done for Manon. The KGB had assured him that the cable would never be delivered in Europe so its effects had already been negated, and the KGB would likely leave him and Jasoslava alone – after all, she had already paid her debt to them. It was a terrible tragedy, but admitting the role he had played in Manon's unforeseeable death would crush him and destroy his old friendships. He wanted, desperately, to put the most painful thing he had ever done behind him.

"Control," Ben looked earnestly across the desk at his old friend, "the worst is always the uncertainty. Give Yvette and Philip some closure. At least send a casket. It will help them move on."

Control leaned back in his office chair, considering Ben's words. He trusted Ben's judgment, and he felt Silver was right. As uncomfortable as it was to think about, it needed to be done. He nodded, "I'll call Paris."

Ben got up to leave, he had a lot to think about on the way home. "Let me know if there is anything I can do."

"Make room on your calendar for the funeral," Control said, grimly.

* * *

**Aiguille d'Argentière**

The small plane had left a large depression in the snowy mountain surface, and its wreckage had impacted the mountain with a great deal of force. The wreckage pattern was consistent with an explosive crash, but the pattern was slightly larger than predicted by such an impact. Company agents working in coordination with DGSE interviewed the crash investigators to confirm whether or not a bomb had been aboard the aircraft, but the evidence wasn't conclusive enough to point to anything but a collision with the snowy mountain. Officially, it had crashed into the snowy mountainside. Unofficially, there were lingering questions that would never be answered by the meager evidence at the site of the accident.

The Paris station agents found the local coroner who pointed out that he could not verify Manon's body was on the plane. The agents, with the help of the DGSE, brought the official plane's manifest to his attention. Although reluctant, the DGSE agents applied some pressure to the coroner to sign the death certificates for Manon at the bequest of their American colleagues. After a copy of the death certificate was submitted to the Americans for their review, the original was handed over to the local French authorities for subsequent delivery to Manon's family. The Company field agents also communicated the Company's request that any physical evidence be sent back for her funeral. In short order, the agents had also sent a report back to Control. In response to the requests, the DGSE sent an empty casket to Quebec, a few pounds of soil from the site at Aiguille d'Argentière locked inside it and a French flag draping the casket of one of their former colleagues. It was all they could do for Manon Brevard.


	19. Chapter 19

Manon Brevard Marcel was taken from the box and deposited at the feet of Piotra. She awoke, aching in muscles and tendons and bones she didn't even know she had. She had grown thinner, and her mouth was dry from thirst. Piotra pulled her into a nearby chair.

Bring her some water," he commanded the guards nearby. After she had drank her fill, Piotra smiled, "Now, why don't we begin again?"

"There is no reason to begin," she replied quietly, her voice still determined, "because there is nothing I will tell you."

Piotra feigned shock. "Well, that is too bad. I am a generous man - I even brought you a fresh meal from the kitchen downstairs," he unveiled a plate at his elbow, and he could see her eye it hungrily. He pushed it toward her. "I know you must feel very confused right now," he offered, sympathetically.

Manon eyed the dish being pushed closer, but she shoved it away. "I am not confused," she returned. "And I am not a traitor."

Piotra laughed, kicking back his chair as he stood up. "You aren't confused? We shall see about that." He turned toward the guards, "Put her in the wet box, this time."

The guards took Manon away forcefully, shoving her into the same box she had been in before, but this time, she could feel the constant drip, drip, drip of water tapping her head and face. Within forty minutes she was cold and miserable, the dripping itself beyond a minor annoyance. After a few hours, the constant dripping on her face was maddening. After a day, she was shaking terribly and wishing it would stop. She knew the constant water tapping on her head was wearing at her mental fortitude.

After a day of the wet box, the guards pulled her from it and prepared her for another interrogation. They marched her to one interrogation room to begin questioning. An examiner was there, but he waved her off. She was taken to another room and deposited in another chair for an interrogation. The interrogator picked up a phone and ordered her to be taken away. For hours, the guards marched her from one interrogation room to another. And each time, she thought the interrogation would finally begin, but it did not commence. Often, someone would enter after she had already been put in the room to order the guards to take her away again. Sometimes, she would wait an hour for an interrogator to show up before being whisked away, or the interrogator would sit down almost immediately, shuffle a few papers, look expectantly at her, and leave. The guards would periodically change, she assumed from a change in their shifts. She tried to use this periodic change in guards as a way to keep track of time, but eventually she lost track of even that.

After another day of this treatment, she was taken to another room, where there were bright lights and loud noises which prevented her already exhausted body from sleeping. If she dozed off, she would feel a swift kick in her side to wake her up again. "Please let me sleep," she finally pleaded with the guards.

"This is no weekend resort," one of them snarled back at her.

Manon was shuffled again between interrogators and types of torture. The torture varied - usually, it consisted of the room with loud sounds and bright lights, the unbearable dripping on her face in the wet box, and the confusion of being taken from room to room for hours, always expecting an interrogation. This continued for what seemed like weeks, but Manon no longer had any sense of time. She could feel only pain and exhaustion from sleeplessness, hunger, and confusion burrowing deep into her bones. She was given meager rations and just enough water to leave her thirst unquenched until she again entered the wet box, where she tried to drink one drop at a time. The KGB decreased the food rations they gave her until it was nearly nothing to live on. She came to depend on whatever they would throw her way. And they often made her eat from the floor, at their feet.

Sometime later, they finally left her in an interrogation room alone, and it was all she could do to keep herself from weeping for joy at a moment's peace. She searched desperately for a way out, but the room was securely locked. At last, Piotra entered the room, this time with Petrovich.

Piotra sat down, smiling again while Petrovich remained standing. "Tell me Manon," he said in a low voice, "do you think anyone even knows where you are? Or that they know what is happening to you? Do you think anyone is coming to get you? We can play this little game as long as you like. Or we can end it now, and it will be much less painless."

"Put a few grams of lead in her skull," Petrovich sucked on a lit cigarette. "She isn't worth any more of our time." He sneered at Manon's huddling body.

"No, Petrovich," Piotra stopped him with a hand. "Manon is a smart woman, and she will see that if she complies, we can be very generous."

"It was too generous of you not to use physical torture," Petrovich leaned in menacingly. "Let's see how she enjoys being beaten within an inch of her life." He grabbed her hand and slammed it down, palm up on the table. Taking his cigarette, he ground it against her palm, eliciting a scream from Manon. "You see," he threw up his hands. "Maybe if we cut off her appendages one by one," he slipped a knife out of his pocket, unfolding it slowly. Again, he grabbed her burnt hand as she tried to pull it away, drawing the knife blade against the skin of her little pinky and drawing its blood.

Piotra waved off Petrovich. "That's not necessary, is it Manon?"

Manon was in a world of confusion. She had been snatched from her life in Quebec, and she knew they were trying to break her mental state. They had almost succeeded, for she did not know now how long she had been under KGB confinement now, and her ability to sort delusion from reality was getting murkier. She lived from moment to moment in a state of constant fear and terror, never knowing where she would be taken next or what would be done to her. Her confusion grew with each day, and she tried desperately to keep track of something - anything - time, hours, the names of her captors. But their approach was a regime of torture they had perfected over several decades, and it was very effective. Piotra and Petrovich would switch from soothingly sweet to manically terrorizing. One would take the role of a gentle examiner, often Piotra, and the other would take the role of the vindictive and malicious captor. She never knew which it would be, which one would treat her with kindness. But she finally realized that their techniques to shatter her mind would not have a happy ending. She was unlikely to leave this place alive, and even if she could manage that, it was likely to be an unhappy and unbearable existence.

In that room, at that moment, she knew she must muster what little mental defenses she had left. _Midnight Transposition. _She had already looked for a way to commit suicide, but so far, she had not been left alone, except in the box, for an extended period of time. Even if she tried to starve herself to death, she had already seen other prisoners being force fed. There had to be another way, a faster way. She knew they were wearing her down, and she did not have much time until she was completely broken. She had seen it happen to others, and now it was happening to her. She also knew that if she could not kill herself or escape or tell anyone else who could rescue her, she would need them to do it for her. And the faster that she could get them to put her out of her misery, the better it would be for her. She would need to goad them into a rage to kill her, but at least it would be at the time of her choosing.

She looked back at Piotra with unbroken eyes and spat at his face. Piotra lunged across the table, knocking Manon's chair backwards. His eyes flickered with intensity as he bent over her. "Oh, you think you can withstand us?" He backhanded her sharply, breaking her nose before he rose again. "We will give her to the male prisoners for a few days," his wrath dripping from his words.

Manon was stripped naked and put in a general holding cell with scores of male prisoners. Before she emerged again, bloody and cowering, she had been savagely gang raped and beaten by the lower elements contained in the cell. One young gentleman had tried to protect her, but he was also severely beaten, preventing any others with chivalrous thoughts from helping her. The guards that came to get her pulled her from the holding pen and forced her into another small box with peepholes cut out for anyone passing by. She withstood the terrible gazes of the guards for another day, some urinating on her after they had their fill of looking at her naked and broken body.

By the time she was pulled from the last box, her humiliation, degradation, and mental deterioration was almost complete. But shivering, naked, and beaten, now she refused to even respond to Piotra and Petrovich's questions or their presence. Her eyes had dulled after being put in the male holding cell, but Piotra could see that they still held anger and repugnance for the Soviets.

After trying several times to engage her in any conversation, Piotra gestured to the guards to take her outside. "Clean her up," he called after them. "She stinks of urine."

After the guards had taken Manon away, Petrovich cornered Piotra. "Damn it. We've tried everything. Most women break under the psychological terror - I've never seen anyone hold on as long as she has. And I didn't think we'd even need to resort to physical torture, but she's withstood that as well. That last routine should have pushed her over the edge, but she still won't talk."

"We will give her some time to recover from holding pen. Besides," Piotra replied, "everyone breaks eventually."

"Yes, but the question is, when they are broken, is their information of any use anymore? The problem here is that she is getting to the point that she won't even know up from down, and her information will be totally unreliable."

Piotra frowned, knowing Petrovich had a point. "Let's call Arthur Trent. His experiments have been very efficient with even the most difficult prisoners at the Labor Camp. He seems to have a knack for getting into their mind."

Petrovich snorted, "Will Brish even sanction it? He didn't want to use any of those techniques on her."

Piotra flashed Petrovich a rare grin, "Of course he will. He put a lot of assets into this mission, and we have little to show for it. We just have to handle Andrei the right way - make him see that it is in his best interests to let Trent try a few things. Besides, we have done our best."

Petrovich closed his eyes, shaking his head with frustration. "Well, I'm all for it."

Together, they ventured to Brish's office across the city. A little under an hour later, they had emerged from his office, their faces expressionless.

"You want to call Trent over or should I?" Petrovich asked, at last.

"I'll call him," Piotra answered. "Get a copy of her file, so he can come up to speed on it. He prefers a personal touch with each of his prisoners, so I assume he'll need everything we've got on her."

"Right," Petrovich replied, preparing to pull Manon's file for Arthur Trent's perusal.


	20. Chapter 20

Arthur Trent flipped through Manon's file slowly. He felt as if time were standing still. He had been wrenched from his young family and thrown into the dungeons of hell by two men. And now, it seemed, he had been granted this extraordinary gift: a woman who seemingly knew and meant something to both Robert McCall and Control, the men that had caused all of his grief. Where the KGB had brushed aside the connection, Trent had immediately read between the lines: Robert McCall and Manon had known each other intimately for some time. Control would only trust the rescind order to someone who still cared for her very much, Robert McCall. She was, in so many ways, perfect. She could give him what he had been longing for during the last decade. His "rehabilitation" by the KGB had taken just under a year. They had physically tortured him for much of the time, and it was a pain he wished to return to its original sender: Robert McCall. The bitter agony he had felt - sent by the unseen hands of McCall and Control - had been leashed and its energy redirected toward his need for revenge. She could help him, this woman before him. And even if he could never reach them with his own hand, he could reach her. She would stand in as their proxy, and he would fill his cup with the vengeance he had longed for. A few lines of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, a poem he had run across as a schoolboy, occurred to him; it was a poem celebrating life, but it now took on a more sinister tone with his thoughts.

_Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring_,  
_Your Winter garment of Repentance fling._

His gaze returned to the picture on the front of the file: Manon Brevard Marcel. She would make a perfect subject for his experiments. He had slowly been refining them over the last decade, and he would enjoy using them on her, slowly disintegrating her mind piece by tiny piece. He could already smell the sweet aroma of his revenge.

_The Bird of Time has but a little way_  
_To flutter - and the Bird is on the Wing._

The last ten years had given him time to think, to plan what he would do to the Americans if he could ever catch them. The mind and brain experiments he had worked so diligently on with his wife before she had died in that fire 10 long years ago had sparked a disturbingly vicious interest in the machinations of the brain. His analytical mind stepped back from its own perspective, noting the ways in which his experience had caused such tremendous pain to him over such an extended period of time. The function of pain in the brain was something that he found fascinating, even as he suffered with the thoughts of his own dead children and wife. He had turned those initial thoughts into further studies for the KGB, and he began by reading accounts of the Nazis' medical experimentation work, including Josef Mengele and Aribert Heim, among others. He had used their experiments to help him form new mind and brain experiments on the use of pain, and after working with the KGB on the initial ideas, the KGB found his ideas too brutal and risky for most of their purposes, so they directed him toward internal Soviet security forces where he had risen in the ranks, working his way up from a lowly experimental assistant to - at last - the Administrator of the Vladivostok Labor Camp, a place he could perfect his techniques on the unending parade of prisoners handed over to him on hard labor sentences. But regardless of whether he performed more "experiments" at the behest of the KGB or for the Soviet internal security forces, he had enjoyed great success in causing agony for extended periods of time. Sometimes, it resulted in the information the torture was designed to elicit, and sometimes it did not; but Trent knew with each step forward, he was mastering a complex portion of the brain. Ultimately, he didn't care if he did the experiments for the KGB or the internal security services - each experiment gave him a sick and twisted sense of pleasure.

_Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,_  
_Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run . . . _

Now, with Manon, Trent had the opportunity to fill the need for revenge born so long ago. He had never considered that it had been his own actions that had caused his grief and suffering. When he had seen the names and faces of Robert McCall and Control in his KGB file, he had blamed the entire ordeal on them, and nothing, after a decade of thinking only of their demise, could sway his opinion. Manon would be their surrogate for his experiments and the extension of pain he wished to cause them. He would use her own mind against her - bringing her hopes up before he crushed them with despair. And then, when she was used up, when he had his fill and he had broken her mind as he wished to do to Robert McCall and Control, he would kill her.

_The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,_  
_The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one._

At last, Trent closed Manon's file and looked to Piotra, who was waiting expectantly.

"She still clings to the fantasy that they still care for her - that someone will still come for her," Trent murmured, astutely. "We must sever those bonds for once and for all. You have laid a nice foundation. But the rending must be absolute."

"No," Piotra shook his head, "we have done everything perfectly. She saw Control's note ordering McCall's execution. She was made to believe the bomb came from him. Her connections with the Company have been severed."

Trent sipped from an icy water glass nearby. "As I said, you have laid a nice foundation, but you have underestimated the strings that bind her to her old life, and certainly the bond she had with Robert McCall."

"What will you need?" Piotra asked, cautiously.

"Two things," Trent replied, mildly, "First, I will need a male whose voice has a natural tone similar to Robert McCall. Second, I will need a full copy of my file."

"Your file?" Piotra scoffed. "Why do you need your file?"

"Because" Trent tapped on Manon's file, "there are certain names, dates, face, photographs, and other things that I will need for this operation."

Piotra snorted, "You want me to believe that you need your own file for this interrogation?"

"I can assure you - you will be quite pleased with the result," Trent returned.

"I'll see what I can do," Piotra shrugged; it didn't matter to him - it would be up to Brish.

"And," Trent stopped him, "when you are done with her, I would like her to be sent to Vladivostok. I can't very well run my experiments on prisoners that are taken out of my hands, and if I am to invest the time and effort it will require to break her, then I need some assurance that my efforts will result in the time I need to finish my experiments with the same subject."

Piotra considered this. "I will talk to Brish. I'm sure it can be arranged - provided it is after we are done with her."

"Good," Trent smiled.

A few days later, Trent had been provided with the materials he needed. He had an expendable middle-aged prisoner delivered from another labor camp and, more importantly to Trent, he had his own KGB file. He had even read Control's secret report that the KGB had surreptitiously snatched from the Company's files. It had a number of useful items in it, and revisiting those days from 10 years ago made his blood quicken with the thought of revenge.

* * *

"Hello, Manon," Trent looked at the disheveled, weary woman before him. "You don't know me, but I have been reading all about you." His face was serene. "I understand you know the Company agent, Robert McCall?"

Manon stared at him, expressionlessly, but he could see something flicker briefly in her eyes.

"He's just been captured, would you like to see him?"

He could read all of her expressions now; her eyes betrayed her concern when he said they had captured McCall, but they lit up at the opportunity to see him. Inwardly, Trent smiled. He knew he had been right. "Well, he is in the men's wing, you know," he causally dropped as he stood up again. "I can't promise anything, but I will try to see if I can get them to allow it."

He gave her a day to think about this. He had all the time in the world, and time was going to work against Manon Brevard.

* * *

The next day he returned, an unfortunate expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Manon, I tried my very best, but they won't allow it." He looked at her sympathetically. He watched her thoughts churn for a few minutes after he delivered this message before adding. "I did, however, talk them into moving you next to his cell. Maybe it will give you some comfort, being near him." Her face brightened significantly at this development, and Trent smiled. He ushered the guards into the cell, and for the first time, she willingly followed them down the hall. They deposited her in a new cell, and left her there to make her acquaintance with four new cellblock walls.

Although the room looked almost identical to the one she had just left, she felt better, somehow, knowing Robert was so close. A few times, she heard voices in his cell, and she could hear him, muffled. She couldn't make out any words or much more than the tone of his voice, far away through the thick walls. She was so thankful for this one small gift. She wondered if she might see him again in the upcoming days.

But a day later, she realized the room next to her was not a normal holding cell - it was a torture chamber. For several hours each day, she heard the voices in the next room and Robert becoming anxious, upset, scared. She wondered what was going on in that room to cause Robert McCall that amount of angst, but then she heard the cries and the screams of torture. For hours and hours, it went on and on. She could even tell his voice was becoming hoarse from all the screaming. Whatever was happening in that room was extraordinarily painful, and she could only imagine what horrors they were inflicting on him.

This went on for days and days. She tried to cover her ears; she scratched at them until they were bloody, trying to stop the sounds of McCall's torture, but the screaming was so loud, it cut through the walls and left her shaking, crying, and frightful. Whenever Trent returned or a guard came to give her the meager rations that kept her alive, she begged and pleaded with them to stop the torture in the next room, to let her see McCall, or to torture her in his place. But each time, they shook off her pleas and left wordlessly, and each time the screaming would begin again in earnest.

She imagined the worst possible things happening to McCall, and she knew they probably weren't even half of what he was experiencing. She wished desperately that he could escape, that she could help him. But there was nothing she could do. All she could do was listen to the wretched sounds of his torture, and, in turn, it became her torture by proxy.

* * *

At last, Trent returned to Manon's cell. She hadn't heard screaming since the day before, and she hoped it would not start again. Since she had heard nothing from his cell since that time, she had hoped he was sleeping, recuperating, or - dare she hope - that he had escaped.

"I'm afraid," Trent leaned over her, "I have some bad news."

She looked at him with longing eyes, not wanting to hear anything else, but she could not help feeling concern over whatever had happened.

"Robert McCall," he said swiftly, "has been executed."

In an instant, her eyes grew wide, and she screamed, "No!" She crawled up from her position on the floor and pulled at his clothes. "No," she repeated, tears glimmering in her eyes. "Not Robert," she cried.

"Yes," Trent let her claw at him in desperation. "And your friend Control ordered it."

"I don't believe it," she whispered, her raw emotions pouring forth.

Trent held up a video tape. "I have the evidence. Would you like to see it?"

Manon did not respond; she just stared at the tape in his hand.

Taking this as a reluctant yes, Trent motioned at the guards to bring in a television with a VCR. He slipped in the tape and pressed play. On the screen, there was a crowded prison, and some distance away, Manon could see a firing squad had been convened. A man, even further from the camera, already had a black hood drawn over his head. Trent pointed to the figure awaiting his death, "Robert McCall." The video had clearly been made at a Soviet prison, and she could see the insignias on the Soviet uniforms of the prison guards. She gasped. There - in the foreground - was Control, mildly taking it all in. He had been in collusion with the KGB all this time - there was the evidence. He was a traitor not only to her but to McCall and his country as well. There was no other explanation.

Manon watched, her mouth agape, as a man in a suit turned toward Control.

"Ready?" he asked, waiting for Control's acknowledgement.

Control nodded, and the man signaled the firing squad. The loud report of 8 rifles cracked the air, and the hooded man fell to the ground. The execution squad threw a sheet over the body, and Trent turned off the video.

For months, Manon had clung to the hope that something - anything - had been amiss with the order she had couriered for Control, and after she was captured, she suspected that perhaps the KGB had planted the bomb on the airplane as a diversion. But this - after everything she had seen and heard - this was the ultimate betrayal. Not only was everything she had doubted true, the love of her life was dead. In that moment, what the KGB could not vanquish with weeks of torture - her spirit - was broken by Arthur Trent. She was bereft, and now the tears came easily. She no longer had to hide them from the world, because her whole world had come crashing down around her. _Robert McCall - dead? Yes, dead._ The agony, the pain, the treachery, the words unsaid, the trust betrayed. It was all too much for her. Only the shell of Manon was left, her inner consciousness had crumbled with this short video. For Trent, it was such sweet revenge, using this particular video tape to seal her mental disintegration.

Trent left her alone to monitor her from outside her cell. He would let her process this by herself. It shouldn't take more than a few days for the agony to crush her, and then, she would tell him anything he wanted to know.


	21. Chapter 21

**1985, Vladivostok Labor Camp**

Two years had passed since Arthur Trent had crushed Manon's spirit with the revelations of McCall's cold murder at the prison. Trent had even taken her to a shallow grave, among rows and rows of other unmarked graves. Pointing to it, he had said again simply, "Robert McCall," allowing the lie to eat away at her thoughts bit by little bit. Then, after allowing her a few moments at the shallow grave, he had dragged her back to her questioning with the KGB. In the days and weeks after these events, she had become despondent, inconsolable. Not only had the idea of McCall's death crushed her spirit, her hopes of seeing Philip and Yvette had disintegrated as well. She knew that if she wanted to protect them, she must compartmentalize her love for them, neither asking after them nor showing emotion when they were mentioned by her captors. It was her best prospect for protecting the people that mattered most to her. She guarded her hope that the Company had left them alone, and the idea that her daughter's godfather and her husband's oldest friend now lurked treacherously close to them while she was locked away, embarking ever deeper into the endless rings of hell, caused her great distress and countless hours of grief. Her despondency also caused the KGB to begin giving her, forcibly, medication for depression and mood swings, and her interrogators routinely gave her a number of untested drugs as part of her daily drug cocktail regime.

After her long ordeal with the KGB and Trent, Manon had still tried her best to withhold any important information from them, but her sense of what was important had shifted after her ordeal with Trent. Little seemed to matter to her now. The present became ever more important; the past drifted into a foggy haze, overshadowed with the narcotics they gave her on a daily basis. She tried not to think about the future. She hoped that there would be an opportunity to end the present, _Midnight Transposition. _If she succeeded at Midnight Transposition, she would not have to worry about the future at all. Nevertheless, she had always been a mentally strong woman. And in the interrogations that followed, she still tried to feed her questioners information that was easily verified but of little use to the KGB. Initially, she also attempted to falsify sensitive information such as the names and addresses of her Western European contacts, trying to protect them when no one could protect her, but ultimately, when subtle facts she had given them didn't match their confirmed intelligence, they always returned to her cell, furious. And eventually the excruciating agony of the KGB's brutal torture tactics wrung the true facts from her mind. Unfortunately for the KGB, her exit from the Agency so many years before had made much of her information stale, and even with correct names and places, most of her contacts had moved on long before, leaving her information of little use to the KGB. The KGB had spent more than an entire year debriefing her, trying desperately to recoup their investment in the mission, but although they squeezed some useful information out of her, it wasn't nearly what they had hoped for. It was, in many ways, simply a moral victory - a victory they could never claim nor reveal to their American enemies.

At long last, the KGB signed off on her transfer from their holding facilities to a Soviet labor camp. Per the arrangement with Trent, Manon Brevard Marcel became Prisoner No. 73441 at Vladivostok Labor Camp, where Trent was the Administrator. She came to be known, almost solely, by this number. Only Arthur Trent called her by her name, rather than her number. Whereas before the idea of hearing her mere name seemed commonplace, now the torture of her confinement and her experience made her grateful that she still had a name, any name, in this dungeon of hell. She came to believe that Trent's use of her name was an act of mercy, and she began to live for these little recognitions, these little moments with her captor, because she had no one else, nothing else to cling to in her desperate existence. She hated him, but she could not help her human need for recognition and compassion, and she relished any compassion she found in the cold void that was the Vladivostok Labor Camp.

After Trent had her transferred to Vladivostok, he made it clear to the guards and other labor camp workers that she was his, alone. He would use her however he saw fit, and they were not to interfere, nor to touch her in his absence, without his express orders. On occasion, he used guards to continue her torture while he concentrated on his official duties - sometimes female guards who were better at torturing the most sensitive nerves on a female's body. He often took photos of these torture sessions, tucking them into a file he had prepared on Manon, hoping to make use of them later, much later, when he confronted Robert McCall in the flesh. When he was not busy with his other duties, Trent beat Manon, daily, over trifling matters, and he used every opportunity to take out his anger over his family's deaths on her. He twisted her mind with mental manipulation every day, using her as his primary subject for his disturbing research on memory manipulation. He also examined the drugs the KGB had initiated with Manon and increased the dosage to dangerous levels, purposefully altering her moods and creating a drug-induced haze that would last for weeks, to the point that she became entirely unaware of events occurring around her in the labor camp. Time became meaningless as the drugs took hold, and he forced a number of psychedelics into her system, hoping that the hallucinations would allow him greater insight into his enemies as he guided her memories to events he might be able to use against them. He had researched the idea of altering memories, and he also previous research done in the field to implant greater hatred and fear over perceived past events into her mind. He took pleasure in recounting her memories of McCall, ending them all by helping her relive his sudden death at the hands of the firing squad.

For years, Trent had used other labor camp victims, taking them closer and closer to death, but never letting them perish, always holding them teetering on the edge of oblivion. He used all his experience now to make Manon's time with him even more unbearable, but somehow, deep inside Manon, there was the strength of a woman waiting to take her life at the moment of her choosing, hoping desperately for a way out. She still thought of _Midnight Transposition_, the one thing she could never reveal to him, the thing she guarded most of all.

One day, Trent entered Manon's cell, smugly settling in to a chair near her. She shrunk into her seat, fearing that the beatings would begin again, in earnest. "Manon," he said, "I want you to tell me about your last mission with Robert McCall."

The drugs in her mind and the mental manipulation games he had mastered brought back that day in an instant, the last time she saw Robert McCall. She could almost taste it. But she shook away those memories, they were all she had left; the one small thing besides _Midnight Transposition_ that her mind had refused to give to Trent. Everything else had melted together in her brain, and true memories were now difficult to sort from the constant barrage of false memories Trent enjoyed planting in her mind. Now, she could hardly sort out the details of her life, but her memories were captured in deeply visceral feelings such as her tenderness for Robert, an unwavering love for Yvette and Philip, an unveiled hatred for Control, and a desperation to leave the place of her torture. Over such an extended time, the drugs had wrecked havoc on her ability to remember events, and the narcotics had twists swaths of her memories, making the insignificant facts of her life before Vladivostok all the more important to her.

"No," she shook her head, but trembled, knowing the beating he was about to give her.

But instead of the fists she usually experienced, Trent laughed. "No? Well, then, what can I persuade you with . . . ?" he paused, a smile curling the corner of his mouth again. He needed this information; he was getting close - very close - in his planning to visit the United States and make the two men who had caused him so much agony feel his rage. Manon was a key part of the plan, but he needed a few details to finish his preparatory work for the mission. He knew Manon had never tried to contact her family in Quebec - she didn't appear to have talked to any of the guards to send a message for her, but he correctly assumed that this would be one item of bait she would be entirely unable to resist. "Manon," he drew out a blank page, a pencil, and an envelope. "You know, Philip and Yvette think you are dead."

"I know," she whispered, not meeting his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like one last chance to say something to them?"

"No," Manon wrung her hands, tears filling her eyes as she thought of her family. "It is better this way."

"Oh, I don't mean that you could tell them where you are now," Trent clasped his hands, "but what if . . . what if you had sent a letter from Paris, before you came here, and it had gotten lost in the mail - until now, of course. Aren't there some things you would like to say to them? Wisdom you would like to impart to your daughter - a last love note to your husband? You'll have to be very careful about what you say, but perhaps a short note would be permissible. If you tell me about your last mission with Robert McCall, I will personally see to it that this letter reaches Philip and Yvette Marcel."

Manon looked up at him. Surely he wouldn't offer something under these conditions if he wasn't serious.

"Besides," Trent went on, "it hardly matters now, does it? With McCall's death, these little details about your missions are of little matter to anyone else.

Manon considered this. It was true that she had tried to keep certain things from Trent, but the mission with Robert - although it had marked the end of their time together - the details no longer mattered to anyone but her. She didn't need to protect McCall - there was no way the information could be used against him now, and Trent always had a way of manipulating her mind to daydream away her miserable existence in the terrible labor camp. Only when she relived her recollections through his attempts to manipulate her semi-pliable memories did she feel as though she wasn't confined by the high walls of the labor camp.

"All right," she reluctantly agreed, wondering if there was any way she could send an encoded message to Philip that he would understand. She would have to try, if she could think of a code he would understand. It might be her last chance. She didn't care if Trent unearthed it or not.

"We were in Paris," she began, thinking back those long years. "We didn't know it would be our last mission; it just happened that way. There was concern that a businessman working closely with the French foreign ministry might be a spy. His name was Pierre Babineaux, but you might know him as Pavel Ryunfelof."

Trent could barely contain a gasp. Pavel Runfelov** was the older brother of Mikhail Runfelov - a man who had risen almost as high in the KGB as Andrei Brish. He had heard that Runfelov's brother had been killed years ago, but his murder had never been solved, and Runfelov had always harbored a streak of rage for his brother's unknown killer. Trent could barely contain his excitement at hearing the name.

Manon continued, "I was set up in the French foreign ministry, working in conjunction with the DGSE to try to entrap Babineaux."

"Runfelov," Trent corrected her.

"Yes, Runfelov. The Company had to be certain that he was a spy before we rolled him up because he was working on some delicate financial matters with _Crédit Lyonnais_, one of France's largest banks, as an international investor. Robert had been working undercover as another financial investor from London, and we were meeting at dinner when we received the signal from Control that we were to roll him up."

"What was the signal?" Trent inquired.

"It was just a song, a classical piece, it was played in the restaurant where we were dining."

"What was the piece?"

Manon shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't remember; it was so long ago," it was a lie. She remembered it so well.

"Think back," Trent ordered, his tone commanding her compliance.

She blinked, thinking back across the years. She could almost smell the scents of fresh baked bread in that little restaurant and the lingering taste of a dry red wine. Robert had seemed troubled that night - she would only learn later from her closest colleagues in Paris that he had been on edge for weeks, apparently contemplating a decision between continuing their relationship and his career trajectory. He had never worked up the courage to mention it to her. And then, their mission had commenced. That song that had started their mission - Control had chosen it. It was a delicate piano piece by Alfred Schnittke. "Reflections in the Rain," she responded, softly. "We had waited so long, we started to think we would never hear it. We had met with him three times previously."

"Go on," Trent encouraged her. "What happened?"

Manon looked away, sadly. "We received the signal, and I headed off to powder my nose in the ladies room. As planned, Robert offered to take Babineaux - Runfelov - to meet with one of his contacts who worked for _Société Générale_, one of the largest banks competing with _Crédit Lyonnais_. We knew Runfelov would jump at the opportunity because the other big banks would pay double or triple the interest rates on his investments that he had negotiated with _Crédit Lyonnais_. But we also knew he wouldn't do it with a representative of the foreign ministry there - that's why I left. We thought he might have to bribe me later, which would make it very easy to roll him up. Anyway, by the time I got back, they had already left the restaurant. He took Runfelov to the designated place, but Runfelov must have suspected something. He pulled a gun on Robert, and Robert was forced to shoot Runfelov in self-defense. By the time I got there, Robert had already called the Company cleaners. They had discovered Runfelov's Russian passport and KGB credentials at his residence, and when they found out who it was, knowing that both Runfelov and his brother were rising stars in the KGB, the decision was made to send McCall to Bermuda to let things cool off. He never returned to France while I was stationed there."

Trent rubbed his chin. "And the KGB never figured out who killed Pavel Runfelov?"

"No," Manon admitted, closing her eyes as she relived those last moments with McCall, reliving his denial of her, how he had turned his back on her and never called, never wrote, never returned. "No," she repeated, "they never did. I imagine Robert would have run into a very angry Mikhail Runfelov if he had ever found out."

Trent finished his notes and patted her congenially. "Very good, Manon, very good." He gave her a piece of paper and time to craft the note he had promised to deliver to her family. Reading it over, he noted that she had followed his orders to the letter, and he found no evidence that she had attempted to intimate that she was still alive or send a surreptitious message. Nodding, he stuffed it into his pocket. "I'll send it out today." Before he left the room, Trent jotted the title of the song used to signal the beginning of Manon's mission with McCall on a small notepad. He had always found that little details like these made his job so much easier . . . .

After he had exited the room, he found a small lighter and watched the little note go up in smoke. "Delivery complete," he blew out the ashes as he headed back to his office.

* * *

**Brish's Office, KGB Headquarters**

Trent threw his feet up on Brish's desk, waiting for the intelligence chief to return. As Brish walked in, he stared at Trent's feet until Trent removed them, the smirk disappearing from Trent's face. "I've got something for you," Trent said.

"What is it?" Brish sat down and poured himself a noon vodka. His job was stressful enough - at least he had the comfort of his vodka at lunchtime. As his career had entered its twilight years, he had turned heavily to alcohol, but no one dared challenge his authority, even if he added a snort of vodka to his coffee in the morning, a shot to his lunch, or a bottle in lieu of dinner.

Trent smiled, coyly. "Well, I _know_ I have something you want, but I want something in return."

Brish snorted. _Of course he did. Trent wouldn't visit for fun. _"What is it?" he repeated, annoyed.

"Everybody knows you owe Runfelov."

"So what," Brish bristled. "He is waiting for me to fall and to take over my position, mostly."

"How would you like to even up the score?"

Brish snorted again. "Enough of this nonsense; get to your point - if you have one."

Trent leaned forward, "All right - I have the name of the man who killed Runfelov's brother."

Brish straightened. _This was interesting. _"Who?"

Trent wrote down McCall's name on a piece of paper and folded it in half. Holding it between two fingers, he waved it toward Brish. "Here is the name. Surely it will cancel any debts you owe Runfelov - but it's not free. I have a minor request, in exchange."

"Get on with it, already." Brish growled, his patience worn.

"Manon Marcel - she's done, washed up, but I have taken a fancy to her. I want her - free and clear of paperwork."

Brish contemplated this idea for a moment. Marcel had interested him when they had taken her two years ago, but she had been of little value. Now, after the past few years, she had served her purpose. There was nothing left for the KGB to wring from her, and now that she was at a labor camp, Brish didn't care if she died in a shallow grave or if she was Trent's personal experiment. "Fine," he shrugged, unconcerned. "She is yours. Just make sure she doesn't cause _me_ any more trouble."

Trent handed over the piece of paper in his hand. He knew that it really didn't matter if he handed over McCall's name to Brish and Brish gave it immediately to Runfelov. Runfelov certainly wouldn't have time to set anything up to steal the vengeance Trent craved before Trent had a chance to put his own operation into effect. With this slight detail taken care of - with his purchase of Manon from the KGB through this little tidbit of information - he was one step closer to putting his own plan against McCall and Control into effect in a few weeks' time.

* * *

**Vladivostok Labor Camp**

Manon looked at the pile of pills she had amassed over the past few weeks, secreting them in her bra, her panties, anywhere she could. Now, for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, she smiled. _Midnight Transposition_. Her future would be her own. Taking a deep breath, she forced all the pills down her throat and positioned herself on the chair in her cell, knowing that when she finally passed out, if the pills didn't kill her, surely the fall would.

* * *

Upon his return to the labor camp, Trent found the guards in a flurry of activity. "What's happened?" he asked one of them. Seeing the terror in the guards eyes, Trent took the stairs two by two down to Manon's cell. She had been saving up her medication doses, secreting them somewhere, and now she had overdosed on them in an apparent suicide attempt.

"No!" Trent spat out angrily. He was so close to putting his plan into effect, and now she would steal his victory from him. "Get her to the hospital," he pushed the guards urgently into her cell to help him carry her to the hospital. Trent noticed a pool of blood around her head - she had fallen to the cement floor, splitting her head on the ground. Trent grasped at his hair with clawed fingers. _Not now! Not now! _He had been so close, and now, this! He forced himself to regain his composure. He would make sure she recovered. She couldn't die - not yet.

An hour later, he paced outside the hospital ward, waiting for the doctors to emerge. When they finally opened the door to the ward, he noticed their gazes. "Is she dead?" he asked, a touch of fear in his eyes.

"No," one of the doctors shook his head. "We've put her in a medically induced coma due to both the drug overdose and the concussion she received. We think she may have permanent memory damage, especially with the cocktail of drugs that she just took."

"But will she live?" Trent hissed.

"It will be touch and go for awhile - we think so, but we can't assure you of anything."

Trent ground his teeth in impatience. Now he would have to wait for her recuperation before he could put his plan into effect - and her recovery would clearly take some time. It didn't appear that it would simply be a few days or a few weeks before she was fit to travel to the United States. He hoped Runfelov wouldn't get to McCall before he did.

* * *

_** Author's Note: The discussion of Runfelov and his brother is a tie-in to the episodes Mission McCall Parts 1 & 2__, in which Runfelov is the_ _unseen__ mastermind behind the attempt to take McCall to Moscow to stand trial for the death of his brother. The events in Mission McCall occurred shortly before the episodes Mystery of Manon Parts 1 & 2._


	22. Chapter 22

**1987, Old Town Alexandria, VA**

Control returned the sheet back to its original position covering the body as he crouched next to it. There was nothing quite like seeing the brains of one of your old friends sprayed across the wall. It was equally hard to erase the sight of his dull eyes, a gaping hole in his head where he had inserted the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger, his blood drying in pools around his lifeless body. _Damn it Ben_, he thought. The wound was clearly self-inflicted.

"The coroner is pressuring us to release the body from the scene," an agent at his elbow whispered.

"All right." Control acknowledged the request. He knew the Company had persuaded the coroner and the Alexandria Police Department to leave the body in place until he'd been able to take an emergency trip on the morning flier from La Guardia to Washington National. Control stood, at last and turned toward the agent. "There were no unusual phone calls? You've checked everything he has been working on over the past few months?"

The agent pointed toward Silver's home office, "We went through all of his recent mail. There was nothing unusual in it. His phone logs have been consistent over the past two years. No late night calls, very few foreign calls, and nothing suspicious. We've already interviewed his son early this afternoon – there hasn't been anything out of the ordinary. His son noted that he had become severely depressed in the past few months after his wife died. We'll have the report on your desk tomorrow, depending on the final coroner's report."

Control nodded – Ben certainly hadn't been himself after she had died. He waved off the agent to give him a moment to collect his thoughts. The agent went over to the assistant coroner and the detective assigned to the case, coordinating with them over the details of the investigation. While they were busy, Control wandered over to Ben's desk and leafed through the stack of mail on it. There was nothing that caught his eye. He opened Ben's fireplace and noticed the ashes of a few recently burned pieces of paper lying inside it. He thought he caught part of Jasoslava's name on one, but just the slight air movement from opening the glass panel covering the fireplace disintegrated them. There was no way to piece them back together. He closed the panel again.

Since Jasoslava's death, Ben had been despondent. Everyone had noticed it, but they all thought it would pass, in time. His work had begun to suffer, but he hadn't been working on anything sensitive, and he hadn't worked abroad since his transfer back to Washington, DC. Just before his suicide, his appearances at work become erratic, sometimes missing days at a time. As a result, he had received a disappointing work review from Washington, D.C., but his friends in the area had noted he had just been depressed, milling about his house. Control had read the review, and it was possible that the report was what pushed him over the edge, though Ben seemed more miserable over his wife's death than anything else. Unless the investigation turned up anything else, it certainly looked like another old agent taking what sometime seemed like the only way out of a wretched life.

* * *

**Months Earlier**

Several weeks had passed since Jasoslava's funeral. Without warning, she had an unexpected and massive stroke, killing her instantly. Ben had been at work, and he had returned to find her dead, in their kitchen. Her death was so sudden, and she had been relatively young. Ben had dealt with his grief privately, but he had waited until now to go through her things.

He had begun by packing up her clothing. He thought it would help the hurt of saying goodbye to his partner, the woman he had passed a lifetime with, most of it in their Old Town Alexandria home. It had been difficult, but he thought it was slowly helping him move on though the sudden arc of desolation and sadness that he had experienced when she had died. All his friends had been caring and sympathetic; he had recognized after the funeral that he had amassed a truly caring support network. Most of his friend had called and looked after him in the weeks after it had happened. Now that some time had passed, the world seemed to expect that he had finished grieving, that only the first few weeks were difficult. But he found it much more difficult after the cards, the flowers, the visits had all stopped. Now was the time when everyone else went back to their own lives, and now was when he found that he felt the most alone. In comparison, the logistics of her death and the ensuing funeral felt easy. But now, he had to figure out how to rebuild his life alone.

After he had cleaned out the bedroom, he began to clear out her office, saving a few things his son might cherish but otherwise trying his best to let go of her material things. He sorted through her papers, shredding most of them. He would send her books on to Goodwill – perhaps someone else would enjoy them as much as she had. He went through her desk drawers – she had the desk handcrafted years before, when they had first arrived in Washington, after his transfer. After everything was empty, he slid the drawers closed again, but he heard something rattle from deep inside the desk. Furrowing his brow, he repeated the action and heard the same sound. It didn't sound as if something was loose, but rather like something was rolling around the interior somewhere. He crawled under the desk, jiggling different pieces when he noticed something strange about the desk. He returned to his office and took a few quick measurements. There was definitely a discrepancy between the size of the main drawer and the depth of the desk. It was much shallower than all the side drawers, and he was unable to remove it from the desk because of the way the craftsman had constructed the desk. He crawled under it and tapped the back. The sound occurred again. He emerged, puzzled.

The next few hours found him poking and prodding the desk until he found the ingenious way the designer had created to access the secret compartment. Finally, it slid open, revealing some knick knacks he'd never seen before, an address book in Russian, a few contact lists, and several notes. They were all in her native language. He took them over to his favorite reading chair, wondering what these notes were that she had hidden all these years. Perhaps old love letters from before they met – or – God forbid – an affair.

As he leafed through them, though, he quickly realized they were much worse than that. The contact lists had the names and addresses of KGB contacts. The letters – some encoded, some not – were notes to and from the KGB. Most of them he could not discern, but what he could gleam from them was that Jasoslava had never stopped working for the KGB. She had been in contact – albeit infrequent – with Moscow. Whenever he had brought his work home or mentioned anything happening at the Company, she had made detailed notes. And this was clear evidence that not only had she made notes, she had passed it back to Moscow. Her betrayal was unbearable to him. His cherished memories of the past now crumbled around him.

As he read through the notes, he knew he had a choice. He could tell the Company of his wife's betrayal and live with the months or years of investigations it would create and the incessant questioning that would result, or he could destroy the evidence and let her rest in her grave, peacefully, with her treachery known only to him. He considered the alternatives for many hours, staring out his window toward the Potomac. But over and over, his thoughts returned to his only son and what the investigation and revelations would do to him. Rather than bring this misery on his son, Ben gathered the papers in his fireplace, struck a match, and watched them burn, but all the while, his heart sunk lower and lower in his chest – the memories which had once brought him joy now brought him only pain and despair.

* * *

**Just Under a Month Before Ben's Suicide**

Ben had returned from work, weary after another day in the District. Since he had found the compartment in Jasoslava's desk after her death, he had walked uneasily through his existence, and little seemed to matter to him anymore. He slumped into a leather armchair and poured himself a tall whiskey. He hated whiskey, and it had been on his shelf for years, but now he didn't care whether the taste pleased him or not, he simply wanted a release from his current life, and any alcohol would do. But just as he was settling down with it, he heard the ring of the doorbell. He considered not answering it, but its insistence forced him back out of the chair, stumbling down the hallway. "Relax, I'm coming," he said at the doorway, fumbling with the lock as the doorbell continued to ring, unrelentingly.

He opened it and gasped, for there was Manon Brevard Marcel standing at his doorstep.


	23. Chapter 23

After her suicide attempt, Manon had some permanent memory loss from the severe concussion she had sustained, but the effect of the prolonged exposure to experimental drugs was much worse. After her attempted suicide, Trent had realized that her diminished memory capacity gave him even greater ability to control her thoughts. By restricting her access to her old memories, she relied on him for memories of events past, and he could manipulate her thoughts much easier than before. As she recuperated, he used the time to build new memories, erase old ones, and manipulate others. He implanted dreams and nightmares while she slept, and when she awoke, he used hypnosis to help control her actions and behaviors until he was certain she would follow his orders, no matter where he took her. He still had to be careful - if the wrong memories were triggered, it could undermine his entire operation. But he had so thoroughly debriefed her over the last several years that the potential for a sudden memory to be triggered by anything he painstakingly planned was unlikely.

In the meantime, Trent collected photographs, video, and audio from the KGB files he could get his hands on to help put his plan into effect. He even managed to get a copy of the Company's secret report on Manon. He would use all of the information he had collected to help him administer the same slow torture on everyone around his victims, but especially those close to Robert McCall. Trent would tighten the noose around his prey. He would strangle each acquaintance one by one through slow mental torture and a web of lies, leaving their destruction in his wake, and by the time he had finished with his prey, they would regret ever crossing his path. Robert McCall would lose everything, just as he had lost everything in the fire so many years ago. Trent didn't even have a photograph of his young family - it had all been take away because of them. He would make them feel the same pain he had felt these long years. Slow and painful. Yes, everything would be excruciatingly slow and painful.

He would start with Ben Silver, the first rung in his noose.

And so, after Manon had recuperated and when the time was finally right, he had arranged illicit passports to the United States. Now, he sat in Ben Silver's house, Manon beside him.

Ben stared at them, his face ashen. "I thought you were dead?" Ben managed to say to Trent, warily. Silver had recognized Trent behind Manon at the door even before he saw Trent's gun, and the memory of how he had been manipulated those long years ago had returned to him. He suspected now that Jasoslava had been involved somehow, and Trent immediately confirmed his suspicion.

"Oh no, I'm quite alive," Trent assured him. "And I've come to collect a debt from Jasoslava."

"What sort of debt?" Ben glanced at Manon again. If it wasn't Manon Brevard, it was a very, very convincing likeness. But he couldn't deny that Trent shouldn't be alive, either. It didn't make any sense. He would have been overjoyed to see Manon alive again but not like this. He could tell that she wasn't herself, and he could only imagine the horrors that she had endured while ensnared by Trent.

"A monetary one," Trent let the faint trickle of a smile play across his face.

"I'm not going to help you," Ben said, coldly.

"Oh, but I think you will," Trent replied, coolly. "You remember this woman, don't you?" he gestured at Manon. "You helped send her through the worst five years of her life. You took everything from her. Look at her now. She's hardly more than an animal after enduring medical experimentation, torture, rape."

Silver noticed that Manon said little. She seemed confused, perhaps under a daze of drugs. She wore the signs of physical abuse on her face. Ben lunged at Trent, but Trent waved the loaded gun in front of him, cocking it and pointing at Manon, rather than Ben. "It would be such a shame for her to come all this way and then to die when you make a moronic move like that. Don't you want her to see her family again?" Trent asked, sitting on Ben's couch and making himself at home.

Ben calmed himself and forced himself to sit down opposite Trent. He gazed at the man in front of him but he tried to will himself to another place, another time. This incident from his past still haunted him, and now the fruits of his moment of weakness had returned to seek their vengeance. "I didn't know what would happen to her. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Oh really?" Trent took out a small cassette player and played back the tape of the phone call Piotra and Petrovich had spliced together from Jasoslava's recordings and played for Manon so many years before. "Does this sound familiar?"

Silver gasped, rising again. "I didn't-" Realization dawned in his eyes.

"Oh yes," Trent smiled, "Jasoslava was very helpful in putting this together. A true triple agent, until the very end."

Silver thought about the notes he had found in her desk, and he knew it was true. Jasoslava had helped plan and execute the operation that had resulted in Manon's disappearance. She had placed his career and their lives in jeopardy - and she had hid it all from him, all the years they had been together. Trent had destroyed in a moment what had taken a lifetime to create - the revelations in the desk were shocking enough, but Trent had managed to show him the dramatic and personal effect that Jasoslava's treachery had played.

Silver just stared at Trent, saying nothing. His mind was frozen with horror.

"I'll bet you didn't know," Trent waved his gun about, "that she had an affair with Andei Brish. He always enjoyed getting her letters postmarked from Virginia."

Silver's eyes blazed with fire.

"No, you didn't know that?" Trent asked, letting the idea of Silver's wife and the Soviet intelligence chief sharing a bed linger on Silver's mind. "Well, that's all in the past, anyway. But what do you think your good friend Robert McCall would say, if he knew what you did to Manon Brevard? What your wife did?" Trent enjoyed watching the flames of emotion flash across Ben's face. Anger, sadness, desperation. Pain. Trent uncocked the gun, tucking it into his suit pocket. He could already feel his hand closing around Ben's throat, slowly cutting off his will to live. "It just goes to show, you really can't trust anyone. Not even one of your best friends." Trent waved a hand toward the outside world. "It would be such a shame if anyone ever found out what you and Jasoslava did. It would ruin your old friendships, destroy what is left of your career - you'll be labeled a traitor." He looked over to Manon, "She told me that you have a favorite expression - _Man perishes not from darkness but from the cold_. Well, I suppose that if your actions ever came to light, you would be out in the cold. None of your old friends would want to spin the tales of old times with a traitor. No one to stop by your lonely townhouse. No one who would care if you dropped dead of . . . a stroke, suddenly." Trent let these last words burn. He meant for them to evoke Jasoslava's passing, and he had intended to take away Ben's reliance on his friends and colleagues, to divorce him from a lifetime of love and to leave him desolate, alone with only his thoughts.

"What is it that you want?" Ben said, quietly.

"A few simple things," Trent ticked off a list on his fingers. "First, whatever cash you have in your house. No withdrawals. Second, I need some current phone numbers and addresses - Philip Marcel, for one, Robert McCall for another. Third, I need you to retrieve your gun. And I wouldn't try anything idiotic again. You should well note that I have planned for _every_ contingency."

Unhappily, Silver retrieved his revolver from his desk and handed it over to Trent, who was wearing thin gloves that protected his fingerprints from the gun. Trent unloaded the gun, leaving one bullet in it. Handing it back to Silver, he said, "Unfortunately, if you try to kill me, you still have to deal with her," he jerked his head toward Manon, "and all the explanations that come with it. I really wouldn't recommend it. You _will_ lose your friends and your reputation. On the other hand, you could put her out of her misery, but then I'd have to take you in her place. And as you can see, it has been a very long road for her. And who knows, perhaps she is happy like that - not even remembering her past. Of course, you could shoot yourself - a quick and painless escape. But I'm not sure you'd have the courage to do it, would you Ben?" Trent let these thoughts linger for a few moments as well before he continued again. "Or, consider the wisest choice of all - you let me finish my business, and I will go. I will take her with me. No one will be the wiser. Just you and I will know the truth, Ben. No one else has to know."

"I won't help you," Silver said, coldly.

"Oh I forgot," Trent took out an address out of his pocked and showed it to Silver before replacing it in his pocket again. He wouldn't leave any physical evidence. "This - this is your son's address isn't it? I have a nice dossier on him as well."

"Don't threaten my son," Ben again leapt out of his seat in an instant, raging.

Trent threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I really don't have to threaten him. Imagine what his life would be like if his father was uncovered as an American traitor and his mother, a Soviet spy. It would be a rough life ahead of him, indeed. I can see him burning your photos now. He won't even visit your gravesite, Ben. Is that what you want?"

Ben wanted desperately to find a way out. He could feel Trent tightening the noose around him, but he knew that whatever Trent was up to, Trent was going to play this game how he wanted, and Ben couldn't let him take it out on his son. Silver would do anything to save his son from the agony of the life Trent described. "If you want to shoot me, then just get it over with."

"Oh no, Ben," Trent snorted, "I need you to watch her," he gestured toward Manon. "I've got to run out and make some phone calls. I promise to be a gentleman and make them from a payphone rather than from your landline. And remember, if anything happens while I'm gone, it is your son that I will take it out on."

Ben took the gun back from Trent, and he tucked it in the back of his waistband, his face grim as he watched Trent exit the house and cross the street, departing in an old Mercedes.

Silver turned back toward Manon, his face changing to one of concern. "What has happened to you?" he whispered to her.

"Ben?" she looked at him strangely, as if recognizing him through a haze.

"Yes, it's Ben," he said, gently. "What did he do to you?"

"Terrible things," he could hear her murmur quietly. "May I lay down on your couch? I'm so tired."

"Sure," he fetched a blanket for her and gazed at her long after she fell asleep, wondering what exactly had happened those many years before. He wanted to ask her, but she clearly wasn't in any state to answer questions. After several hours, his brain was worn out. He had been thinking through all the alternatives – everything he might be able to do to get both of them out of the present situation, and he hadn't come up with any satisfactory courses of action. After trying to think through all the possibilities, his tired mind dozed off.

When he awoke at the sound of the door closing, he found only the blanket on the couch but no Manon. He turned to see Arthur Trent looming in the doorway. In the intervening time, Trent had found a nondescript phone booth where he had started his calls intended to terrorize Philip Marcel, Trent's next victim, who he would use to entrap McCall and Control. Philip would be the second rung in Trent's carefully woven noose. The sweetest revenge would be destroying his enemies by using Philip as the trigger man. Trent used audio recordings of Manon when he called Philip, a skilled investigator. Trent couldn't afford to leave any physical evidence as he slowly strangled his victims, and the lack of any actual evidence was sure to drive Marcel crazy.

"Where is she?" Trent snarled.

Ben stood up in an instant, wide awake. "I don't know – I dozed off."

Trent angrily stormed into the room, throwing Manon's blanket aside. "You'd better find her – or I will pick apart your son bone by scrawny bone." He gestured at Ben with his drawn gun.

Unhappily, Ben quickly searched the house – she wasn't anywhere within it. He and Trent exited the house into the darkness outside. Ben's neighbors' houses were also dark, and the street was eerily quiet. Seeing a female's figure down the street by the glow of a streetlight, they stealthily closed on her position, Trent heading around a corner to head the figure off. Instinctively, Ben pulled his gun out as he chased after the shadowy figure.

Manon saw the two figures pursuing her, and she could see light glinting off both of their guns. She scrambled for some cover, but as she did so, she lost sight of one of the men. Before she knew it, Trent was behind her, and he raised the butt of his gun, knocking her out with force as he brought the gun down on the back of her head. She collapsed, unconscious. "Help me load her into the car," he growled at Ben. Seeing Ben's hesitation, Trent waived his gun at him. "Do you think I was kidding about your son?" Ben's blood ran cold at the threat. He felt himself twisting, turning, caught in a terrible choice. He hesitantly helped lift Manon into the car, still wondering what else he could do to stop this nightmare.

"Oh," Trent got into the Mercedes, rolling down the window, "by the way, I thought you'd like to know, your son – he wasn't even conceived until after you proposed to Jasoslava. She just used the idea of a baby as a rouse to get the proposal."

"That's a lie," Ben's fury strangled his voice.

In fact, it was a lie, but Trent didn't mind using lies to torture his victims. In response to Ben's accusation, he shrugged. "The Soviet doctor was in on it. As soon as you proposed, Jasoslava used some fertility drugs provided to her by Brish." He rolled up the window before adding through the crack, "Or maybe it is Brish's son, after all." He rolled away, a faint smile playing across his face. Unheard by Ben, he added under his breath, "don't waste your Silver bullet, Ben."

After Trent had left, Ben walked quietly back to his house, the events of the day still stunning his brain. On his return to his study, he found a tall bottle of Irish whiskey sitting on his desk, care of Trent. Silver wanted to throw the bottle at the wall; instead, he stuffed it in his wastebasket.

The next morning found Ben sitting quietly in his office. He hadn't moved all night. After restlessly dozing off in his chair, he had awoken to the sun's rays. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his mental footing. He wouldn't let Trent win. He would take responsibility for what he had done those many years ago. He would tell McCall everything. McCall would understand when he told him the circumstances - what he knew, when he knew it. He would apologize, and he would live with his mistakes. They would find Manon - wherever Trent had taken her. They could still help her. He didn't care about his career - but he did care about making things right with his old friends and McCall most of all.

Silver picked up the phone, feeling significantly better, and he rang through to McCall's apartment. Catching McCall at home, Ben and Robert immediately fell into their old banter, and Ben told Robert of his plans to drive down from Washington to New York in a few weeks. Secretly, he knew that he would need a few weeks to get himself together, to think over what he should say and how he should it. It would be a very difficult conversation; that was certain – and it needed to be in person. He needed a little time to work up the courage he would need to take that journey, but by the time he hung up the phone, he felt as if a vast weight had been lifted from his chest.

Silver felt better for a day or so, but then the doubt began to set in. He found the bottle of Irish whiskey in the wastebasket. He hadn't had the time or the desire to take out the garbage yet. He twisted the top open, taking a swig directly from the bottle, so unlike the man he had once been - the man who drank sweet muscato out of delicate glasses while recounting his boar and elephant hunting days. Now, he was a shell of his former self, irreversibly changed by the events of his life and by Arthur Trent's lies and threats.

The Irish whiskey's alcohol stimulated more doubt in Ben's mind, and by the time he had finished the bottle, it had robbed him of the courage he had shown in calling McCall just a few days before. He began to doubt his ability to confess to his past actions or to face up to the conversation he needed to have with McCall, and the emotions of everything that had happened crashed around him. He sobbed, a broken man sitting alone in his house.

The binge turned from one day into two days, two days into three when finally, he found himself sitting at his desk in a drunken stupor with his gun next to him, the bullet that Arthur Trent had placed in the chamber still there. The same thoughts kept echoing in his head: How could he face his friends after what he had done, especially after seeing Manon in her current state? What other way was there to protect his son from a life of paying for his mistakes?

The alcohol made a very good argument - there really was only one way out.

He cocked the revolver and stuck it in his mouth.

* * *

_Author's Note: Ben's suicide immediately precedes the opening scene of "Mystery of Manon" (Part 1). The conclusion of the other story threads from the flashback sequence of Part II are concluded in Mystery of Manon (parts 1 and 2)._


	24. Epilogue

McCall closed the files and took off his glasses. His tired eyes ached - he had read everything in one long stretch; although he had stopped periodically to discuss some details with Control. Now he laid the files and the diary to the side. He felt as if he had just emerged from a terrible darkness, a moonless midnight in the mind of Manon where she was trapped by the mental and physical torture that she had endured at the hands of Arthur Trent and the KGB. Through the diary, he could almost feel the pieces of Manon's soul shattering into smaller and smaller fragments as he read the events and details of what she had encountered since taking that fateful flight, so many years ago. He now appreciated the monumental mountain she would have to climb in recovering from her severe trauma.

He sat in a long silence, gazing out Control's picture windows over the skyline of New York. He couldn't shake the deep sadness that now engulfed him. He hadn't entirely comprehended Manon's condition until now, but now that he understood, in greater detail, the atrocities and horrors she had endured, it broke his heart over again.

Although it was after 2 am, Control entered the room quietly and leaned on the couch across from McCall, clasping his hands with a concerned look on his face and a newspaper under his arm. McCall noticed his bow tie hung loosely under his suit jacket - apparently he was taking his upgraded sick time as seriously as he had taken his bed rest. After a long silence, Control finally asked, quietly, "Are you all right, Old Son?"

McCall could barely contain the overwhelming melancholy that gripped him. "It was my fault," he whispered. "Arthur Trent was trying to get revenge for the evidence I turned over to the KGB." He could feel his grief welling up in his throat. "And Ben," his voice wavered, "my god. If he'd just said something, he might be alive today."

Control listened, quietly, finally tossing the newspaper under his arm down next to him. "Robert, you can't blame yourself."

"Can't I?" McCall said, his voice rising. "You know, that is the difference between you and I, Control, you can bury these things as if they didn't happen. I cannot dismiss my actions as easily as you; I must live with myself when I wake up in the morning."

Control somberly took this in. He knew McCall took these things very personally - he would blame himself from here to the grave for the random events that had resulted in Manon's trauma. McCall's anger was misplaced - but Control knew that McCall needed time to process what had happened in his own way. "There are things from the past that I'm not proud of either, Robert," he said, his voice low, "and if I could change the day that I asked Manon to deliver that message, I would. But I can't change the past, and neither can you. There's no accounting for her lost time, but overcoming all odds, she has survived this whole ordeal. We've got to focus on what we can do for her in the present."

McCall knew his old friend was right, but the situation was unbearably painful. He stood, turning his back to Control, looking out over the city with his glasses dangling from his hand. "Did you lie to me the other day when you said that you didn't think she would have to live out her life at King's Oaks?" McCall had realized, through the long day and night of reading, that his previous hope that she could be returned to normalcy might have been misplaced; a hope that Control had planted, perhaps in some effort to save their friendship.

Control looked at the ground. He had his professional opinion and his personal one, but he knew what McCall preferred to hear; nevertheless, he felt it was a moment for genuine but delicate frankness. "It is as bad as I've ever seen," he said quietly. "Even the ones that were tortured to death - at least there was a final release for the victims. And the others who lived through it - I've never seen the type of psychological torture for that amount of time in the intensity that she endured it. It is, I think, a testament to her strength and her will, but the woman that got on the plane to France to try to rescue you is gone forever."

McCall turned, his face heavy with anguish and concern. "Then, you don't think there is any hope for her?" His usual confidence in his judgment had fallen apart when it came to Manon, and the day's reading had left him bereft of direction when it came to her present circumstances.

"I didn't say that," Control said gently. "I said she won't be the same woman. However far she can come back to sanity, these events have destroyed some parts of the Manon we once knew and shaped other parts that we will probably never know."

Robert McCall sadly took this in. Whatever fleeting hope he had that Manon would return entirely to her former self was gone, but there was still hope of a different kind, hope that Manon - this Manon, this woman in whatever form she had arrived in - could still be aided, and that her future was brighter than it had been a few weeks ago. "She can still be helped," he said simply.

Control remained silent for a moment before responding. "Yes, but it will be a long and difficult road for her. I don't think anyone can say with certainty whether or not she will ever be well enough to leave King's Oaks."

McCall knew he would be unable to sleep this night. Everything he had read, the events of the past few days, it was all whirling around his mind. He knew only that he wished he was able to do more for Manon. He looked through the windows over the city beyond. "I do owe you an apology," McCall said, at last.

"It's fine," Control tried to cut him off, but McCall continued, turning toward him.

"No, no, it's not fine. Let me say this."

Control fell silent.

"I misjudged your intentions the other day, and for that I feel terribly sorry. What I did was unforgiveable. You transferred Manon to the best possible care at great cost and risk to yourself. I know that it must be terribly painful to know how Trent manipulated her feelings, but if she could understand everything that happened to her, she would know that you embodied the trust she and Philip put in you. I want you to know that I will explain it to Yvette, and god willing, one day to Manon."

Control was silent; there was little he could say.

At last, McCall turned, his face changing slightly, "I also know that it was a strain on you - the other night - considering J-49."

Control groaned, pulling off his loose bow tie and unbuttoning his collar. "Does HIPAA mean nothing to the Medical staff?"

"Pete told me about it. You do realize you've been playing with fire - the Medical staff is trying to look out for you, and you aren't doing yourself any favors by wearing yourself so thin."

Control shook his head, feeling properly chastised. "Well, I've been assured that the possibility of any side-effect is dramatically less than it was just a few weeks ago. And, anyway, I don't think you understand - forcing me to stay away from the office is driving my blood pressure up, not down."

"No," McCall pointed out, "I quite understand. But now that you have installed _your_ people in your old positions, you need to trust them. The OSO will wait; the President will wait. You have placed good people in good positions, and they will run anything that is important up the chain to you. In the meantime, you really do need to look after yourself."

"Are you telling me to take a vacation?"

McCall snorted, "I don't think you are capable of taking a _real_ vacation." He walked by the couch where Control had thrown his newspaper earlier, and McCall picked it up, reading the Russian headline. Control grimaced as he saw McCall unfolding the paper. "What's this?" McCall glanced at the accompanying photo and story. He glanced up sharply at Control. Tapping it, his words took on the hint of venom. "A murder-suicide?" He read from the article, his words getting harsher as he read them. "Former Soviet official Vitali Zholtok took his own life an apparent murder-suicide after killing his mistress, a Russian journalist." He looked up. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

Control knew better than to say anything.

"The problem with you is," McCall gestured at Control, "you know exactly where the boundary of right and wrong is - but sometimes you simply choose to ignore it." He stopped, narrowing his eyes, anger brewing. "You told me you hadn't signed a warrant for his execution."

Control slid into a chair, at last. "Circumstances changed since we talked. And anyway, things aren't always as black and white as you like to see them, Robert."

"You said," McCall's voice started rise, "that you knew she was a civilian, and you would try to protect her. Since we've worked together at the Company, you could always hide behind the decisions of others. Now that you are in charge of the OSO, you don't have any more excuses. This was your decision, and yours alone."

Control rubbed his forehead, contemplating the ground. "When Vitali sent her the OSO files, she became involved. And anyway, there were new developments after Isra arrived in Russia. Look," he glanced at McCall wearily, "you don't want to know, so don't ask."

"When will you stop lying to me?" McCall threw down the newspaper in disgust.

Control let this remark slide. It was a rhetorical question, anyway. He and McCall both knew that his job, at times, demanded deception and purposefully misleading statements, although it often affected their friendship. He knew exactly how this conversation would go, so he changed the subject. "I will put the Company paperwork through tomorrow on Manon, and then I'll need a few days, but I'm sure I can get the DA's office to quash the warrant for Manon's arrest by the end of the week. I'll have the legal department look at lifting the state commitment and transfer her supervision to a Company psychologist."

At the discussion's return to Manon's situation, McCall's anger subsided. "Manon needs the best care possible. I thought you mentioned a Dr. Bell?"

Control walked over to his cigar case. "I did, but he's on an extended field research mission in Niger." He picked one out and snipped off the end with a cigar cutter.

"If he's the best," McCall said, pointedly, "then we've got to find him. We have to give her every chance for the best possible recovery."

"I'll be tied up in running these documents through the Company for the next few days, and I have to finalize that list for the OSO."

"Then you'll finalize it on the flight over the pond. I remember you once mentioned that you did your training mission in Niger, and I don't know that sector at all. The closest I've been is Nigeria. Since you are on forced vacation from the Company anyway, you might as well make use of it."

Control eyes twinkled, "I thought you'd never ask." He lit his cigar, his expression changing into one of wry chagrin. "You know, I might be able to manage my blood pressure better if I could resolve at least one of the moving pieces with respect to the OSO."

McCall looked at the ceiling, "Why is it that every conversation with you turns into manipulation of some kind?"

Control shrugged with a smile. "I thought you were the one who brought up ways to reduce my blood pressure."

McCall put his fingertips to his forehand, an exasperated look on his face. "I _do not_, absolutely _do not_ want to be on the OSO's Board list."

"I know," Control gestured at him with the cigar. "You're not on it."

"Oh?" McCall was pleasantly surprised but suspicious. Since the helicopter ride home, he had been certain Control would try to manipulate him onto something like the Board.

"Although if you would prefer to be on it, I might be able to promise some quint board getaways," Control said, dryly.

No," McCall seized the opportunity Control had offered to be disassociated from the OSO board. "I haven't had a forcible vacation to Bermuda in years, and I don't want any more." His eyes narrowed. "If that isn't it, what do you want?"

As much as Control needed a strong vice chairman for the OSO, a position he had would have liked to unilaterally name McCall to, he also knew that he wouldn't be able to finesse Robert into serving on the Board, despite his best efforts. McCall's stance on the Company and everything associated with it was unwavering. McCall's disgust for government politics and intrigue had only increased threefold since he had left the Company so long ago. He would never capitulate to Control's request, so there was little point in trying to convince him of the necessity. At last, Control said, "I need you to do something else for me."

"Here it is," McCall said under his breath, glowering.

"I need someone who is independent - or as independent as it gets when it comes to the OSO - to prepare an investigative report. You dealt with internal investigations for the Company for several years - there's no one better that I can think of to do it."

McCall stared at him for a moment, disbelievingly. "You already know exactly what it will say. You are building your own scaffold for the hanging. If a Congressional committee gets ahold of something like that . . . ."

"I need leverage."

McCall looked out the window again. "You better have one hell of a plan."

Control snorted, "I'm hopeful that I won't have to use the report."

McCall looked back, warily, "That's not much of a plan."

"I'm aware of that."

McCall felt his weariness from such a long and mentally taxing day descend on him all at once. "Fine. We can talk about it on the flight over."

"I'll arrange the tickets next week after I've dealt with the warrant issue." Control took a long draw on his cigar. "You realize, considering Bell's location, I can't promise there won't be any camels this time."

McCall groaned. _Dear God. Not camels. Not again._

- FIN -

_Author's Note: Many, many hours were spent creating this fiction for you. Reviews / comments / suggestions are welcome. I take all of them seriously._


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